


Interpreter

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: AU: Pryce as Vanto, Betrayal, Cheunh, Disturbing Themes, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Language Kink, Languages and Linguistics, Military, Misunderstandings, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Sy Bisti, Unhealthy Relationships, Weird Romance, thryce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:20:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: Ensign Arihnda Pryce is Commander Thrawn's interpreter.  And she wants to add his native tongue to her list of languages.





	1. Useful Terms

It had started as a crap assignment. It had felt like a punishment, even, when she’d first received orders to report to the Captain’s office. It didn’t matter what her original operational specialty had been, what she’d signed up for. The Empire needed an interpreter, and her file had come up. Never in a million years had Ensign Arihnda Pryce expected that listing Sy Bisti fluency on her Imperial Navy application would upend her plans and destroy her hopes for a military command.

An interpreter. Spitting out someone else’s words all day instead of being able to give voice to her own. 

She was so overqualified for this, Pryce thought angrily, still pissed, now long after her transfer. The bitterness didn’t exactly fade on her tongue, but she’d gotten used to it. 

When she’d been told about the new billet, assigned to an alien, she’d seen it as a demotion, first, and an annoyance, second. It wasn’t that she was xenophobic—but she knew the Imperial officers she served with often were. Pryce was under no illusions—her career had suffered at Thrawn’s side, even now that he was commanding his own ship. Perhaps especially for that reason—as the Chiss ascended the ranks of Imperial military hierarchy, simple jealousy joined speciesism in conspiring against him. He’d survived one court martial, but Pryce somehow doubted the worst was behind Thrawn.

What had become clear, within a week of their acquaintance, was that Thrawn was no ordinary alien. No ordinary man, for that matter. This fact helped Pryce when she was feeling sorry for herself, cursing under her breath at yet another representational event where her charge pretended to misunderstand something when it was convenient for him. He didn’t need her anymore, and both of them knew it. But the façade was maintained, for whatever reason. And Pryce was too proud to ask his rationale for keeping her at his side. Like all of his strategies, she expected it would be explained or become obvious at some point. So she sucked it up, and smiled and nodded and tried not to roll her eyes when Thrawn so maddeningly turned his face, deliberately blank to her, and asked for help understanding some mundane nuance.

Tonight, she’d been summoned to be his plus one at an incredibly boring cocktail party to commemorate some typically important occasion. It was hosted by the Imperial Officers Spouses Association, which meant an even more dull gathering than usual. 

Once upon a time, Pryce would have enjoyed dressing up like one of these glitzy women, willowy and glamorous. But instead she was wearing her starched to stone dress uniform, standing so stiffly she was basically at parade rest, and listening to Commander Thrawn stoically discuss neo-Ruusan art with an uncultured General and his entourage. The General’s wife was politely feigning interest, but kept looking at Pryce with a raised eyebrow as if questioning the entire experience.

Pryce tried to look sympathetic each time the woman glanced at her. After all, she knew better than most how annoying Thrawn could be with his aesthetic theories—it was her job to explain it when required.

Suddenly she became aware everyone was looking expectantly at her. She hadn’t been paying attention and Thrawn knew it, but for some reason, he was in a good mood tonight. Amused, although probably no one else in the room would have been able to discern that subtlety in the lift of his lips and edges of his eyes. She’d gotten fairly good at reading him. 

“My apologies, Commander.” Pryce inclined her head, inviting a repeat of whatever question she’d missed.

“Never mind, Ensign,” he answered, turning back to the General. “I believe the word I was looking for is ‘craquelure’.” He glanced at Pryce out of the corner of one red eye, perhaps sensing her fatigue. “But I have kept you from the other guests. Thank you for a fascinating conversation.” He bowed formally to the Mrs. General. “Please excuse us.”

Thrawn touched Pryce’s elbow firmly and briefly as was his habit—a quick steer in the direction he wished her to go. They walked over to a line of potted starburst plants. The foliage created a bit of a screen, separating them from the rest of the reception hall, and that seemed to be his intent.

“You’re distracted this evening, Ensign.”

Pryce sighed. She supposed she _had_ been distracted by the expensive and political spectacle, such as it was, but no point in dwelling on what would never be. This was her life now, and until her contract with the Navy was up, she had to accept it.

“Apologies, sir.” Her blue eyes glinted at him, a rebuke there that would be insubordination to voice. “But if there is _any_ vocabulary I’m certain you don’t need help with, it’s artistic description.”

He smiled, that exceptionally brief flash of teeth that she liked, perhaps due to its infrequent appearance. “Allow me to apologize, then, Ensign Pryce, for rather inelegantly trying to bring you into the conversation.”

“Or rather obviously pointing out my inattention, sir.” She bit her lip. That was not a good response, really, to a superior officer, but sometimes she did get too comfortable with Thrawn. There were moments when she felt more like his accomplice than aide-de-camp. 

_“Kungani kungenjalo kokubili?”_

She smiled despite herself. Yes, why not both? Emboldened by his mood and retort, she decided to ask what she’d avoided asking for months.

“Your Basic is almost perfect, Commander Thrawn. Don’t you think sometimes my presence is superfluous at events like this? Surely—”

Something in his face stopped her. His eyes shifted, then relaxed, as if he’d deliberately decided not to react as instinct intended.

“Your Sy Bisti is almost perfect as well, Ensign.”

Pryce tried not to take umbrage at the turnabout and dodge. Her language skills _had_ improved, she knew it, because Thrawn often spoke to her in the Outer Rim traders tongue when they were alone, as he had a moment ago. Yes, she wasn’t flawless, far from it. Still, she wasn’t sure what his point was. He hadn’t addressed the blatant truth that he didn’t need her to communicate. Probably never had.

“ _Tsa’viuh_ …” Pryce replied, wondering how he’d react. 

She did love languages, and had often thought it would be interesting to learn Cheunh. The problem was a lack of scholastic resources, as well as native speakers, for practice.

Earlier in the week on her leave, she’d visited the Imperial library. The only documentation that existed in their vast records regarding Thrawn’s native tongue was an addendum to a merchant’s trading logs that included a list of “useful terms.” ‘Almost,’ thankfully, had been one of them, although she had no idea how her pronunciation held up.

Thrawn’s expression was unreadable, but Pryce thought she saw a stronger glow in his eyes.

“ _Tsarviuh_ ” he answered, enunciating each syllable.

Something about the way he looked at her as he said it made her feel slightly unbalanced. The air in the room seemed heavier and Pryce fought to suck in her next breath.

“ _Tsarviuh_ ,” she repeated, almost whispering it, focusing on the ‘r’ sound he’d inserted.

“Commander!” The boisterous voice belonged to a too-friendly Lieutenant Commander, one that Pryce had always detested. Thrawn turned smoothly to greet him, and she hated the intruding guest even more. Pryce plastered a smile on her lips and did the same. It was going to be a long night.

~o~

Two hours later, the hosts had been honored, the Empire had been feted, and the Emperor’s health had been toasted at least three times. Thrawn gave her that small nod that was mutually understood to mean it was time to withdraw. Not a moment too soon, to Pryce’s way of thinking. Some of the more junior officers were getting positively sloppy from the open bar, and she’d already had to evade the amorous attentions of two repulsive superiors and discourage one fawning subordinate. 

She stayed at Thrawn’s side as they made their way towards the exit. They’d done this routine enough to know how to avoid both snubs and ingratiating kiss-asses in his path. 

Escape complete, they stood as silently and still as statues as they waited for the turbolift, when a young Lieutenant skipped up. To her, not Thrawn. 

Pryce didn’t know him.

“Hi! Ensign Pryce, right?” He beamed, and saluted briefly to Thrawn. “Commander.”

Thrawn looked implacably at the man, who didn’t seem to notice, turning his eyes back to Pryce.

“So uh…you’re not working anymore, right? Wanna go grab a drink somewhere?”

Pryce was shocked, and perhaps a bit flattered. Her immediate response was to look to Thrawn for support, an instinct she stifled not a moment too soon. She was off-duty, she supposed, and didn’t need Thrawn’s permission to have a social life. And she didn’t recognize this lieutenant, but he wasn’t bad looking, and maybe…

“Apologies, Lieutenant, I am afraid Ensign Pryce is not, as of yet, off-duty.” Thrawn looked at her pointedly, daring her to contradict him.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Pryce met his gaze, wondering if it was his goal in life to ruin all aspects of hers. There was a curiosity there, perhaps, in his look. She couldn’t defy him now, but hoped that her expression burned into his understanding exactly what she thought of his input.

“Yes, Lieutenant.” She managed a smile, hoping it didn’t look the rictus it felt. “Another time.”

The young officer wasn’t too bothered, face still sunny and smiling. “Sure.” He looked at Thrawn again, a little more sober. “Excuse me, sir. See you around, Ensign.”

As he left, the turbolift doors opened and she stepped in after Thrawn. Early on, her commander had questioned protocol regarding opening and closing doors and the proper procedure for things like getting into transports and lifts. The Chiss were apparently sexually gallant about such things, but rank dictated priority, not gender, in the Empire. 

As the doors closed, Pryce seethed, not even trying to hide it, but said nothing. Thrawn spoke first.

“You wished to leave with him?”

That wasn’t what she expected him to say, surprised at the question in his tone, and was automatically shaking her head. The negation was pure reflex, not considered.

“No,” she replied. Maybe it wasn’t a lie.

“No,” he repeated, and it was clear he doubted her.

The lift whirred softly as the ground floor approached. Pryce let her head fall back, looking up at the smooth, mirrored ceiling above.

“No. But I thought I had a choice in the matter.”

It was true, she realized. She didn’t really need a casual fling to cap off her evening, but it was annoying that Thrawn had felt the need to decide for her.

He was silent as the doors opened, once again steering her with that firm touch not right, towards the lobby and exit, but left, to the social center of the complex. Pryce walked, too tired to wonder where he was heading.

Less than a minute later, Thrawn turned down a smoke-scented hallway and pushed open a door of reddened laroon wood. She’d never been here before, and as they moved past the threshold, it became clear why. It was some kind of officer’s club. No sign, but obviously a drinking destination by the décor and formally dressed doorman.

“Good evening, sir,” the man said smoothly. 

Pryce expected something else, a question as to her presence or what they would like to drink or eat, where to sit, but Thrawn just returned the greeting and walked deeper into the dark recesses of the luxurious bar. She realized it was impossible to make out the identities of the uniformed personnel scattered around the edges, a clever trick of the lighting. 

Thrawn made his way to a dim corner, indicating two rich leather chairs, upholstered in the soft skin of a radiant creature she couldn’t identify. Pryce sat, too surprised to ask any questions. She wasn’t sure what she expected to be the topic of this strange setting. Perhaps something about her responsibilities or personal behavior, based upon what had just happened upstairs.

A droid waiter came, they ordered, and only after the drinks were delivered did Thrawn seem to relax, become more himself.

“There are sound-dampener fields in each section of the room,” he commented, as if she’d asked a question.

“I figured,” she said, picking up the glass of wine before her, “considering how the lighting is set up.”

He seemed pleased at her observation, and his mouth turned up, the corners hinting at his satisfaction. 

“Indeed.” He looked at her, carefully, evaluating her, then continued. “You have taken an interest in Cheunh.”

Was that why they were here? Pryce didn’t think it was the type of thing he would have needed a discreet location to discuss, but she was always learning things about her boss.

“I have,” she answered, meeting his stare.

“Why?”

Thrawn reached for his drink and Pryce watched him sip it, confusion washing over her. The honest answer seemed inadvisable, which was because it was _his_ language. And it fascinated her. As he fascinated her. But she didn’t quite have another response, and only seconds to come up with one.

“Sir?”

A delay, to be sure, but at most a few more seconds for him to clarify. What could she tell him that wouldn’t sound strange or worse, sentimental?

 _“Kungani? Si Sy Bisti usuvele wa’tzi.”_ His reply was rapid.

Why indeed? They already had the ability to communicate privately using Sy Bisti. Pryce fought to remember another of the words from the trader’s Cheunh cheat sheet.

“ _Dashe._ ”

Thrawn looked at her so intently that she thought she’d accidentally insulted him. When he spoke, it was just one word, but sounded like an edict.

“ _Tras._ ”

Mine. She remembered that word too. So she had said “yours” correctly. Pryce tried not to think about the strange power she could feel somehow embedded in the word, the way he said it.

He leaned towards her, and instinctively she bent in as well, expecting him to say something more. And he did, a long, complex string of sounds, soft and heated, that made no sense at all. It was entrancing, a strange mix of harsh and soothing tones.

“What does that mean?” she asked, almost breathless and not sure why.

“If you speak my language, it becomes our language.”

Thrawn’s voice was impenetrable and rich, a weight she felt low in her chest when he spoke. And they were very close, like conspirators over the small low table between them. Pryce thought she could feel the air leaving his lungs against her face. She felt a strange, ill-advised urge to reach out and take the hand resting on his uniformed knee, and blinked back the impulse, not quite sure where it had originated. 

“It’s beautiful.”

She hadn’t meant to sound so dumbstruck, and Pryce sat back, putting some distance between them. 

“ _Kra’shya._ ”

She repeated it, understanding he had translated her comment without being told. A smile settled on his lips and seemed content to stay there, an unusual look, and one Pryce found made him appear particularly dangerous.

“Will you teach me?” She meant the question to diffuse the tension she could still feel in the small space between them, but it came out sounding breathy and strange. Pryce blinked, her eyes drawn to his lips as she waited for a response.

_“Mar.”_

_“Bindas.”_

He smiled broader, and she knew she had said “thank you” wrong. 

“ _Bint’das._ ” It sounded so much nicer on his tongue than hers, Pryce thought with annoyance, but bit it back. She was an amateur linguist, after all, and speaking four languages, as she did, was no small achievement. And hopefully the Chiss hadn’t made their grammar as difficult as their pronunciation.

This phrase took a bit longer, but Thrawn seemed indulgent as she worked her mouth around the syllables. Once she thought he was going to laugh, but his lips thinned and he seemed to swallow the sound.

She had been tired when they’d arrived at the club, but Pryce was energized by his interest and patience. She explained about the list of terms she’d found, running them down for him as she remembered. He seemed flattered at the trouble she’d gone to, but thankfully didn’t ask her why she hadn’t just asked him for lessons.

They finished their drinks and Pryce felt ready for another, but Thrawn looked over her shoulder at something, probably a chrono. She felt her stomach sink lower in her abdomen, knowing what was coming.

“It’s late,” she offered, not sure why she felt the need to say it. Maybe it was so he didn’t know the truth, that she was reluctant to leave, or so he wouldn’t have to say it for them.

Thrawn’s face corrected itself into its placid, normal façade. 

“ _Mar._ ” He paused, a shadow crossing his eyes. Then another phrase, too long for her to catch anything except the word for ship. But she _had_ caught it, his exaggerated pronunciation, for her benefit no doubt, making it stand out amidst the jumbled collision of sounds.

Pryce wanted to stand up, but well-drilled protocol training kept her in her seat. She nodded instead, straightening her posture. Her superior officer leaned back instead, taking a moment, his eyes fixed to hers, not sharing whatever was going through his head. He seemed to decide then, abruptly, and stood. She quickly did the same.

“I suspect our transport has been kept waiting long enough, Ensign Pryce.”

She could have agreed in Cheunh, but it seemed silly now, the spell broken, so she only nodded and followed him out the door into the hotel corridor, the lobby, the night air.

~o~

The ride back to the Thunder Wasp was silent, both of them absorbed with their own thoughts. A few times Pryce thought she could feel Thrawn tense at her side in the passenger bay. It was probably just her imagination.

When they arrived, the Commander’s embarkation was announced per procedure. Pryce expected him to head to the bridge, his routine upon returning to the ship. But surprisingly, in the turbolift, he didn’t request the bridge. Pryce looked at his profile, stern in the fluorescent lighting and decided not to ask. The lift arrived at her floor, and she stepped off. Thrawn also stepped off.

It would be rude to ask what he was doing, but…what was he doing? Pryce started down the central corridor, her commanding officer at her side. As they walked, she tried hard not to look at him, but couldn’t resist a small question.

“Sir?”

“It is late, Ensign. I thought it a courtesy to accompany you.”

That stopped her heart, even as her footsteps continued, taking the correct turn, down the ever narrowing corridors reserved for those of lowest rank. If someone saw Thrawn on this deck, there was no telling what sort of rumors would get started.

“Thank you sir,” was all she could manage, her voice low and breath sticking in her chest. The fact that he was voluntarily at her side made her more conscious of him than before. She dared not risk a glance at him, so instead watched his booted feet, treading the nondescript floor with a distinctive clicking sound that was his and his alone.

“ _Dah’bun zhaltra,_ ” he said, and she recognized the ritual response, although earlier in the night Thrawn had explained that “you’re welcome” in Cheunh was more like “you are relieved of your obligation to me.”

She arrived at her door, thankful that she had no roommate to question anything that could be heard on the threshold. Thrawn waited wordlessly, so she punched in the access code quickly, hands inexplicably warm.

As the portal slid open she turned to thank him again, perhaps in his language, but the phrase was short-circuited by the look on his face. It was almost…regret? Something she hadn’t seen before, in any case.

“Commander?” Pryce couldn’t hide the concern in her voice, but hearing his title seemed to snap the Chiss out of his reverie. He smiled at her, the expression brief and perfunctory.

“Good night, Ensign Pryce. I enjoyed our evening.”

And that was also entirely unexpected, so Pryce answered without having time to prepare a response.

“So did I. Sir.”

The smile seemed to evolve, not fade exactly, but become something less deliberate on his lips, and then Thrawn spoke again, in Cheunh, another litany of lovely and strange syllables, before he turned swiftly and walked down the corridor. 

The only word she had understood was “ _Kra’shya._ ”


	2. Lesson One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pryce starts Cheunh lessons.

Pryce woke up two hours before her shift started the next morning. She lay in the darkness, eyes sticky, open and unseeing. The room was cold, and she wondered if she’d accidentally turned off the climate control along with the lights last night. She had drunk only two glasses of wine, but apparently that was enough to give her this slight headache and disrupt her sleep.

Her thoughts returned to Commander Thrawn. And their evening together.

Events like last night were important—to be seen, to mingle and rub elbows with the decision makers on Coruscant. Early in her assignment, it had surprised her how receptive Thrawn had been to her guidance in that area. 

Pryce was under contract to the Imperial Navy—not as powerless as an enlisted grunt, but still a low-ranking officer with five years to serve before she could expect to see any real benefit or improvement in her position. She had wasted too many of the first few months in Thrawn’s service cursing her luck and looking for ways to transfer. By the time she’d accepted her fate, at least temporarily, it had become clear that her commanding officer, and holding the proper sway over him, was the obvious ticket to a better future.

Thrawn was brilliant, but not savvy. He was arrogant, not diplomatic. And maybe worst of all, he was ambitious, but apolitical.

There was no way, to Pryce’s mind, for someone to attain any useful level of power or position without playing the political game. 

From the beginning, she’d recognized that her position at Thrawn’s side would only be tolerable if there was a way to profit from it. It had taken her a while to determine the best course of action. But she had. And he had profited along with her.

Her rank excluded her from most opportunities to schmooze the influencers and legislators who held the real power in the Empire. 

But his—his was a different story. 

Thrawn’s rank did more than open doors. His reputation as the Emperor’s pet alien had done as much to intimidate those who would ruin him as anything else. It wasn’t about what you did or achieved, it was about who knew you did it. Pryce had helped him with that. Her role was defined as his Special Attache, his interpreter, although her value to Thrawn went far beyond that billet.  


Thrawn was still learning. 

He’d seen something in her ambition and acumen that could supplement and augment his own position, and she’d responded. While behind-the-scenes power wasn’t the ideal, Pryce relished wielding it regardless, and appreciated the deference to her expertise that Thrawn occasionally displayed.

In any case, he _was_ learning. 

The thought brought her back to the present. Learning. She’d felt bold, asking him to teach her his mother tongue. But he hadn’t hesitated before assenting. Still, something about how he’d secreted them into a dark corner before broaching the subject lent a forbidden feeling to the whole thing.

 _No one_ knew Cheunh. Even advanced protocol droids didn’t have more than a rudimentary vocabulary. It was beyond rare, it was _hidden._ She’d always thought it intentional, but whether on behalf of the Chiss or the Empire, she hadn’t ever considered. But he’d agreed to share his language with her— _our language_ —her memory added.

Pryce’s breath caught. She blinked slowly, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the deeply shadowed ceiling. She rubbed them, fully awake now.

He was her CO. It was natural for him to teach her things, Pryce told herself. She hadn’t even thought of it until he’d asked about her interest, and then the idea had stuck in her brain like an itch she couldn’t reach. 

Even when he had agreed— _“mar,”_ her memory sang the word—she hadn’t expected to _like_ it. To like hearing him correct her pronunciation, patient, this sense of indulgence roiling off his tongue. She would have expected it to be irritating, to see unmasked amusement at her attempts, but… it had been closer to comfortable. Even in the strange setting, the tenebrous atmosphere, the wine, the smell of expensive leather and smoke. 

And he too had “enjoyed” it. He’d said as much.

Of course, anyone who served with Thrawn knew he was more agreeable than standard Imperial brass. It wasn’t like he was the life of the party, but certainly a competent conversationalist, an attentive listener, in her opinion. He had a deserved reputation for being fair. It wasn’t impossible to incur his wrath—she’d witnessed it herself—controlled, simmering, understated. But it _was_ rare, and even more rare for an offender to merit fatal consequences. 

Some subordinates chalked Thrawn’s patience and temperament up to his species, but Pryce had always doubted that, for some reason. She already knew he wasn’t ordinary, and therefore didn’t doubt that he was also far from a typical example of his race. 

_Definitely_ not ordinary. And…

…He’d walked her to her _cabin._

Pryce reflected on this bizarre decision on the part of her commander. Seconds ticked by as she relived the end of the evening.

Yes, she knew the Chiss had that different cultural thing—he’d explained the gender politesse early on in their relationship. She’d explained right back that he’d best forget those niceties if he was going to survive as an officer in the Imperial Navy. And in this area, like in most involving protocol and political maneuvering, he had taken her advice.

Pryce pushed that acknowledgement from her thoughts, ignoring the tingling warmth the mental reflection carried with it.

He _had_ walked her to her cabin and that was immensely foolish. A risk. She should have stopped him, explained its inappropriateness. And why the hell hadn’t he ever tried to do it before? They’d had enough late night representational events; it should have come up at least fifty times before now.

She shuddered to think about what would have happened if he’d been spotted on the way back to the lift or the bridge. It bothered her. The Commander’s presence in the O-1 barracks had few credible explanations, and most of them resulted in damage to her reputation. His as well. Their careers would suffer. She _was_ the obvious choice for a tryst, she supposed, pushing away the images her mind tried to conjure at the inference.

Pryce tried not to be annoyed, failing. She closed her eyes, lying in the narrow bed, and took a deep breath. She wouldn’t say anything this time, but if it came up again…

Her datapad chimed, the ‘time-sensitive’ pattern of one long sound and two short. Groaning, Pryce slapped an arm to her nightstand and pulled it to her. The glow hurt her eyes, despite being on the dimmest setting.

She punched in her password and saw a personal dayshift update. Eyes narrowing, she swiped it open. Her schedule had been modified. There was an addition.

_1200-1300: R5-638_

Pryce stared at the information for what felt like ages. She already had a twelve hour day, and now her lunch break… She wasn’t even sure where corridor R5 was—the Restricted access deck, one she wasn’t often roaming. Of course, she knew a few locations there, usually when Thrawn had meetings with the ISB, but this was a new one. She tapped on the entry to see who had altered it, who had scheduled the assignment. 

_Access denied._

Great.

She sat up, the sudden movement making her temples throb. Yes, definitely a hangover. Whatever that wine had been at the shadowy club, it hadn’t agreed with her. Pryce tossed the datapad onto the sheets, swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched. 

She was buttoning the middle of her tunic when the datapad chimed again. This time, the sound was short, simple, indicating a new message. Half-dressed, Pryce tried to open the communique.

_INPUT ACCESS CODE_

Password protected? Not unheard of, for shipboard communications, but certainly not standard either. Pryce sat back down on the bed, rubbing her forehead absently.

She tried her password. That didn’t work. Her workstation key. No. Glaring at the screen now, Pryce took a deep breath. First her schedule, and now…

Oh.

 _Thrawn_ had changed her schedule. Her lunchtime was the only free block, after all. And it seemed certain now that this message was from him. Pryce input the last access code they’d mutually used for classified material. 

_INPUT ACCESS CODE  
3 attempts remaining until data self-destruct_

Perfect. She couldn’t ask Thrawn—it would make her seem ignorant. This was some kind of test. He loved this sort of crap—deductions, logic, analysis. Pryce set down the datapad, forcing a pause. She would think better after a cup of caf, she decided, making one in the small alcove next to the fresher as she pondered.

She thought back to the club, the conversation about Cheunh. He had listened to her detail the words she had discovered, corrected her speech, offered context and explanations. 

They had not discussed numbers. Definitely not. She knew a few, they were on the list she’d found, but…

Impulsively, Pryce punched in yesterday’s standard date.

_INPUT ACCESS CODE  
2 attempts remaining until data self-destruct_

Shit.

Thrawn wouldn’t have chosen something so obvious, she berated herself. Wasted attempt. She only had one more guess before she’d have to ask him. _At lunch,_ her brain appended.

Pryce drank the bitter caf, glaring at the screen’s challenge. What would he have picked? Something he knew that she knew, clearly. Something obvious enough that he didn’t expect her to have to ask him for it. A secret only the two of them shared.

That last thought made her stomach do a little flip. She remembered him in the turbolift, asking if she had wanted to leave with that cheerful lieutenant. And then, back on the Thunder Wasp, the sound of his boots clicking down her hallway…

Her hallway. 

To her room. 

Stars, the man was maddening, Pryce thought, dragging the datapad to her and punching in the entry code for her cabin.

_ACCESS GRANTED_

Pryce refused to contemplate, extrapolate or reflect upon Thrawn’s use of her personal quarters entry code as a shared secret. It wasn’t like the CO of the ship couldn’t go where he wanted anyway. He probably had some kind of master code, regardless, she told herself, shutting down the train of thought and its adjacent prospects as quickly as possible.

The message opened, and Pryce’s eyes widened. It was a list. A vocabulary list. With no Basic or Sy Bisti equivalents. Not a single explanation for any of the Cheunh. Just words. Lots of words. She flipped through, overwhelmed and feeling an outsized and unfamiliar sense of happiness and relief. He’d _made_ this for her.

Pryce sighed, lying back on the bed, forgetting about the wrinkles being created on her pressed uniform. She looked at the strange words, tried to make them come to life on her tongue.

The first seven screens included both long and short word combinations. She recognized some that her research had already uncovered, so Pryce guessed it was something like “common phrases.” The next five screens looked like homework, if she had to guess. Drills. Repetitive patterns and small modifiers added to build them.

Her eyes latched on the word that had made her feel weak when he’d breathed it.

 _Tras._ Mine.

It was in the middle of a list.

_Tra Tras Trasa Traseh_

Pryce repeated the sequence like an incantation, trying to make it sound right. She searched for the word she knew as “yours,” thinking it would be nearby, sandwiched in a similar fashion between forms.

 _Dashe...dashe..._ She scanned three times, finally giving up. It wasn’t there, the absence as strange as it seemed notable.

She looked at other groupings near _Tras_ and its companions, but could find no similarities in the cases or orthography. This was going to be hard. _Tra_ she understood as a form, they’d used it. But…

Her heart was still pounding. Inexplicably. 

Pryce was not surprised, exactly, that Thrawn had taken his agreement to teach her seriously. She was more incredulous at the reality of it, the proof before her eyes. 

_No one_ spoke Cheunh, she thought for the second time that morning. There were no Chiss she’d encountered in the Empire, save one. It seemed like a preposterous waste of time.

_If you speak my language, it becomes our language._

His words repeated like a mantra in her memory, and Pryce shut her eyes, setting the datapad next to her on the bed. 

What was she doing? Why was she doing it? 

She thought about the faint smile that touched his thin lips when she’d mutilated some words last night. Thrawn _wanted_ to teach her. That was evident. And she wanted to learn. Language was the key to understanding culture. Pryce thought of Catharese, a language with eighteen levels of formality built into its grammar, one of the reasons she’d never tried to comprehend it. But it certainly explained a lot, if you ever met a Cathar. Maybe learning Thrawn’s language would give her some insight into the Chiss as a people. And him, personally. 

Knowledge was power. And power...power was everything.

Sitting up, Pryce felt dizzy, vision blurring and weight unstable as her equilibrium faltered. She quickly locked the datapad. She wouldn’t have time to look at the words now anyway. Senior staff meeting was in fifteen minutes. Just time to swing by the mess and grab something for breakfast on the way.

~~

The morning passed in a haze of tasks. Thrawn barely glanced at her during senior staff, and dismissed her afterwards without a word, the typical brief inclination of his head indicating they were finished.

Pryce was glad for the hectic pace of her work. It meant she didn’t have time to consider the oddity awaiting her at midday. She did find a minute at the end of her scheduled navigational review to pull up a shipboard map. Corridor R5 was closer than she’d thought, three levels directly below the command center. She left her work station early, heading for the turbolift.

The R levels were usually deserted, unless there was a high level visitor, then they were swarming with security. In dry dock, the _Thunder Wasp_ was currently not receiving guests. 

The sound of her footsteps echoed no matter how quietly she tried to tread. There was no sign of Thrawn.

At first, she couldn’t find 638. There was 636, 640, 642. No doorway between them. Frustrated, wondering if this was another test, Pryce grimaced at the uncooperative hallway. Finally, she decided to enter 636. Maybe he’d gotten the number wrong. Unlikely, for someone as meticulous as her boss, but possible.

Of course, Pryce didn’t have a code for this portal either. The unsynchronized footsteps of an approaching patrol were audible. Not good. She couldn’t be caught here, couldn’t ask for directions.

In desperation more than revelation, she punched in her cabin entry code to 636. The door slid open.

Stepping in, she slammed the portal closed with a harsh jab of her fingers. Pryce moved slowly in the darkness. A meeting room, a long conference table.

Using her datapad for illumination, she located a small archway within the room, along the starboard wall. Discreet numbers to the left side of the frame. 638. 

This had no entry code—it was a biometric scan. Pryce lay her hand on the sensor, wondering at the cloak and dagger aspect of this rendezvous. It hardly seemed necessary—would appear more suspicious than just a working lunch in the mess if they were discovered. 

Her heart pounded harder as the black arch whisked open.

Thrawn wasn’t there. 

She walked in, now feeling secure enough to turn on the overheads. There were no windows here. No cameras. Two other doorways on opposite sides of the room that wouldn’t open when she lay her hand on their biosensors. She had access, but not total access, she scowled.

She’d never been in this room, that was for certain. Everything about it was unmarked, unremarkable. Three chairs. One durasteel table. Several locked cabinets lined the wall. Its purpose was as nondescript as its furnishings. Not knowing what else to do, Pryce sat in one of the chairs and returned to the vocabulary list, trying to make sense of it, find patterns that eluded her.

Seven minutes late, the Commander entered the room, unsmiling. She stood reflexively and he waved her back into the seat, taking one himself.

“Apologies for the delay, Ensign.” He looked towards her datapad, his demeanor slightly more relaxed.

Pryce didn’t know what to say, so just waited. He hadn’t asked a question, and she wasn’t sure where to start if she asked the ones careening around her brain.

Thrawn switched to Sy Bisti then, a rapid-fire barrage of words that Pryce had been unprepared for. She focused with effort, listening to his enunciation, his accent that was somehow smooth and jarring all at once. 

_This is the last time I will speak to you in this room in anything other than Cheunh. You will learn through immersion, through practice, through use. You may ask questions in Sy Bisti but answers will always be given in Cheunh. If you have learned a word in Cheunh yet you attempt to use the Sy Bisti equivalent, I will not respond. Understood?_

She nodded, mouth dry. _“Mar.”_

A ghost of a smile. _“Rcisah rob.”_ His red eyes burned into her, waiting, and she took the hint.

 _“Rcisah rob.”_ She mangled the phrase, and Thrawn made her repeat it twice, then nodded. Apparently good enough. 

She tested his instructions, asking in Sy Bisti:

_Is that present or past tense for “understand”?_

_“Rihn. Nah ch’itt’isi.”_

Right. She could _ask_ him, but she wouldn’t understand the answer because it would always be Cheunh. Not particularly helpful.

 _“Rihn.”_ She tried to repeat his answer. She had no idea what she was saying. How would this even work? Pryce worked to tamp down a rush of despair and confusion. She could do this. He wouldn’t be here if she couldn’t.

Thrawn waved a hand, palm facing away from her, throwing it over his shoulder.

_“Rcisah rob.”_

She nodded. Past tense.

The hand moved level with his cheek.

_“Rcisah rob.”_

Present is the same as past. Ok. So that must mean…

 _“Rihn,”_ she said. 

A slight twitch of the edge of his lips, almost a smile, and he nodded, bringing the hand forward, fingertips tilted towards her.

_“Csarcican’t rcisah rob.”_

Future. Shit. Future was different, that ridiculously long tense modifier screwing everything up. Pryce nodded but couldn’t come up with the word for ‘different.’ She felt at a loss and reluctant to attempt the complicated version of the verb.

 _“Ch’itt’isi.”_ He said it slowly, something soothing in the tone. The word was familiar, and she was able to locate it in her memory. His earlier phrase.

Different. All right. Maybe this would work.

 _“Ch’itt’isi,”_ she repeated, trying not to get annoyed when he corrected her again. The hard “Ch” that was the root of many words she seemed to do well with, but double consonants thwarted her, at once important and silent, it seemed, a nuance that eluded her. 

Thrawn reached for her datapad, saying something else she didn’t understand, and she handed it over wordlessly. He scrolled quickly, found what he was looking for, and pointed to the lines, leaning over to show her.

_Ch’itt’isi, Ch’itrico  
Rihn, Recet_

So there were forms or cases for adjectives too. Pryce was relieved that she could at least see them written. She’d remember the meanings, she was certain.

Thrawn pulled back her datapad and pointed to another section, near the beginning.

 _“Carcen’casi.”_ The hand over the shoulder again. _“Tsapan’t.”_ Hand at the side of his face. _“Carcun’co.”_ Hand towards her.

She echoed the sounds, twisting her tongue until they spilled correctly from her mouth. Thrawn remained patient; obviously her knowing the words for basic tenses—past, present, future—would be necessary. 

Once she’d gotten that done, he sat straighter, narrowed his eyes, and she could feel the quiz coming.

 _“Carcen’casi, tsapan’t, carcun’co.”_ Yes, she understood the tenses now. But he was looking at her, waiting. She decided to ask in Sy Bisti, after all, he had said she could.

_Do you want me to conjugate the word “understand”? Past present future?_

He was silent, eyes narrowing further, into slits. Oh. Of course. She had just learned those words in Cheunh, and he wouldn’t respond if she tried Sy Bisti. He’d warned her.

She made another attempt, feeling less on edge than she would have expected. Seeing Thrawn like a strict schoolteacher instead of her superior officer was sort of amusing, in a weird way. He brought the same intensity to this exercise as he brought to everything, and if he continued to be patient with her, Pryce felt she could actually learn enough to be useful. Or dangerous. 

She formed the phrase in her mind first, working it slowly from between her lips.

 _“Khuluma,”_ that was the word she had to say in Sy Bisti, that she hadn’t learned yet in Cheunh. The rest… _“Tisut “rcisah rob”? Carcen’casi, tsapant, carcun’co?"_

_“Tsapan’t.”_

At first she thought he was requesting the present tense, then realized he was correcting her pronunciation again. How embarrassing. She fixed it, adding the glottal stop more clearly this time.

 _“Csaah.”_ Again. She had learned that word last night. When he was certain she was following, he indicated she should repeat the words, the tenses. Pryce already felt exhausted, sweat beading at her hairline, but did so.

Once she’d managed to satisfy him, she meant to ask about the lack of the second person possessive in her list, but he was already on to more verbs. She had no time to formulate questions, her memory working harder than it had in years.

A few times, Thrawn just sat back in his chair and loosed a stream of Cheunh at her. The first time he did it, she was stunned, confused, a bit annoyed. The second, she tried to focus on it, suddenly understanding this was for her ears’ benefit. Pryce tried to absorb the sounds, seeking meaning or familiarity. But she was still too new to the language to get anything out of it, comprehension-wise. The third time, just after they’d covered the numerical system, she relaxed, letting his words soften in the air and wash over her. She had no idea what he was saying, but she had decided that wasn’t the point of this part of her lesson. 

And she liked the way he talked.

Maybe she would understand more in the future. _Carcun’co,_ her brain spit out reflexively. Good. She remembered. She was retaining something, at least.

Future lessons. She hadn’t even thought about it, let herself think about it. Did either of them have time for this? The simple answer was ‘no’, yet here they were, the ship’s commander teaching her like a child in a hidden room.

Thrawn was looking at her datapad again. The chrono. It was 1316. She was late. Thrawn ignored her panicked expression, voice still even.

_“Bacin’bah?”_

Questions. Or Question. She’d figured out that plural was bestowed through context in Cheunh. It simplified things. She only had one, really: when was the next lesson? Pryce wracked her brain, since he was still holding her datapad, she couldn’t look to find the words she wanted. 

One thing this lesson had made abundantly clear—the vocabulary he’d written for her was exceptionally well-chosen. Thorough. But he’d tried to keep her from referencing it too often.

 _“Veo…”_ she bit her lip, hoping she wouldn’t screw up the question, wanting to have made some semblance of progress. _“Veo ravzin’t taseuni?”_

 _“Veo cart to ravzin’t taseun’i?”_ he returned, correcting.

Ah, she’d screwed it up. Pryce sighed, nodding, repeating, not caring what these extra particles were doing in her query. She would learn by immersion, he’d said. She didn’t have to understand every detail then, did she? 

He stood up, and she did the same.

 _“Ch’usho.”_ His tone was firm. Tomorrow? So soon? Pryce was about to ask if it was the same time, a phrase she had learned today, but Thrawn added. _“Nuvci.”_

Night.

Tomorrow night. Not evening. Evening was _cas._ Pryce nodded, then remembered to repeat. _“Ch’usho nuvci.”_

Thrawn started for the door, her datapad apparently forgotten in his hand. The black portal glided open as she spoke, deciding to use the word for “stop” instead of “wait.” “Wait” in Cheunh, she’d learned, was a tortured mess of sounds that had no right to exist together. “Stop” she could handle.

_“Vitcehah.”_

He did, turning, eyes curious.

 _“Tras.”_ She pointed to the datapad. 

His look became strange, not dissimilar to the previous evening, as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with her. He handed over the datapad, long fingers brushing her palm as he transferred it to her possession.

 _“Pryce ch’aah,”_ Thrawn said softly, _“dashe.”_ A smile of a brand she’d never seen flickered across his face, gone in an instant. The look left her speechless.

He left the room before she could recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my language kink. I don't think you necessarily need the glossary below, but in case you'd like to know the details or couldn't get meaning from the text/context...
> 
> Per the great comments, I'm using mostly the Coruscant Translator (http://starwars.myrpg.org/coruscant_translator.php) for Cheunh. Thanks to everyone who suggested it! Definitely simplifies things/speeds it up.
> 
> Brief glossary of Cheunh in this chapter follows in the order it appears:  
> Mar: Yes  
> Tras: Mine  
> Tra Tras Trasa Traseh: Cases/forms of the first person singular (unspecified)  
> Dashe: Yours  
> Tra: Case for the first person singular  
> Rcisah rob: I understand/I understood  
> Rihn: Same  
> Nah ch’itt’isi: No difference  
> Csarcican’t rcisah rob: I will understand  
> Ch’itt’isi: Difference  
> Ch’itrico: Different  
> Recet: Similar  
> Carcen’casi: Past  
> Tsapan’t: Present  
> Carcun’co: Future  
> Tisut: Word/To Speak/To Say  
> Csaah: Again  
> Bacin’bah: Question(s)  
> Veo: Interrogative (when, what, how)  
> Ravzin’t: Next  
> Taseuni: Lesson  
> Veo cart to ravzin't taseun'i: When is the next lesson?  
> Ch’usho: Tomorrow  
> Nuvci: Night  
> Vitcehah: Stop  
> ch’aah: Possessive marker (like an apostrophe 's')
> 
> Words in Sy Bisti:  
> Khuluma: to say/to speak


	3. Intimate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Language is complicated, and nuance is important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [sticks_and_scars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sticks_and_scars/pseuds/sticks_and_scars) for being my patient and amazing beta! 
> 
> Also a shout out to [frangipani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani) for the sounding board part of the process and baptizing our not-anything-like-you-know-who adorable Imperial Lieutenant.

Pryce wondered how they would coordinate lessons, but Thrawn seemed to have thought of everything. Each morning her datapad would chime, and a new block of scheduled time would appear. After the first lesson, location was no longer given.

Work was the same drudgery it always had been, but now Pryce had her classes for variety. In the evenings she would look over the vocabulary list. Instead of getting discouraged the harder it got, she grew increasingly obsessed with Cheunh. She wanted to impress her teacher, but it wasn’t easy to do. Far simpler to make him look stern or disappointed. 

But sometimes there was a touch of a smile. Once he’d even laughed.

Color rose on her cheeks. She still didn’t know what she’d said—Thrawn hadn’t explained. But while attempting to construct a phrase involving some new adjectives, a strange light had appeared in his eyes, sheer amusement. When she’d repeated her error, more pronounced the second time, apparently, he couldn’t hold back—letting loose a sound she’d never heard from his throat. Rich and deep and sparkling with something strange and wonderful. She’d laughed too, but he didn’t explain, only correcting her pronunciation through choked laughter.

 _“Veo tsan’ah nah?”_ she’d asked him, when he’d calmed down. What mistake had she made?

 _“Cssah ch’acopah tsan’ah nah,”_ he’d replied, waving a hand to dismiss the question.

A very amusing mistake. The man definitely had no problem stating the obvious.

 _“Cazeban’t,”_ she’d responded dryly. Evidently. That sent him into another fit of chuckles, and she sat back and enjoyed the sight and sound of the Chiss as she’d never seen him before, taking care to hide her own delight at his reaction.

This afternoon, Commander Thrawn had been summoned to a meeting at Imperial Navy headquarters. The topic was Nightswan, as it often was these days, and Pryce paid close attention as the Admirals, Captains, and intelligence officers debated possibilities and tactics. 

Thrawn’s counsel within these walls was too often dismissed due to political jealousies, but today, the presence of the Imperial Security Bureau seemed to lend weight to his words. If Colonel Yularen was interested in Thrawn’s theories, the rest had to at least allow him to voice them.

Forty-five minutes later, she was dismissed, along with the other lower-ranking aides, while a higher-level discussion was held between the decision makers. Pacing the hallway, she checked her comm and tried to pass time by quietly reciting her newest vocabulary. 

They had begun ship terminology. At first it was quite complicated, especially since Thrawn refused to speak Sy Bisti. Yesterday, however, she had thought to bring a diagram and photos on a datacard, which greatly simplified matters.

 _“Can’let’ehn, tun’ci, vikam,”_ she whispered under her breath. Ship, bridge, mess. There were too many words for brig, she’d gotten frustrated about that. Sometimes she cursed his immersion concept…

“Ensign Pryce?”

She whirled around, wondering if she’d been seen talking to herself, to find the same lieutenant from the night of the Imperial Officers Spouse Association function. He was beaming, exactly as he had that night, making it easier to remember him.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said smoothly, “I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

He grinned and held out a hand. “Rees. Rees Palas.” She shook it, liking its warmth. “I take it,” the grin got a little wider, “you’re on duty?”

She nodded, and he hadn’t let go of her hand. Pryce tugged it back, balancing the pleasure of flattery with annoyance at his eagerness.

“Yes.”

“How about later?”

He didn’t miss a beat. Pryce wanted to ask him what was very fascinating about her that he’d approached her so boldly that night, and now found her once more in this hallway. It was odd, she supposed, but tried to swallow the question. What sort of self-esteem did she have, she chastised herself, if she felt every man who was interested had an ulterior motive? The thought made her smile cynically. Well, other than the ulterior motive _every_ man had.

He was looking at her, blue eyes wide, waiting, and she realized she owed him an answer. She had a lesson later. With Thrawn.

“What time?” she hedged cautiously. Maybe she could do both…

“Dinner time,” he answered easily. Oh, he was charming, this Rees Palas. “You name the place.”

 _The Pinnacle,_ she wanted to say, feeling like taking him down a peg, pricing herself out of his range, but it felt petty and self-defeating. After all, they would probably be on Coruscant for a few more weeks, and why not try to have some fun?

“Do you know _Tonneau?”_

He nodded enthusiastically, sandy hair shifting out of place. He was due for a regulation cut, Pryce thought. “That Ithorian place over by the university sector?”

She was surprised that he knew it. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Great!” He looked genuinely pleased, and Pryce felt her cynicism level sink somewhat. It wasn’t often someone looked so happy at the prospect of her company. “Should I pick you up at your ship…or…?”

The doors to the meeting room opened and the Admirals, Captains, Commodores, and other officers began to stream into the corridor. Thrawn was speaking with Yularen, but he’d notice her in a minute. Pryce tried not to look rushed, but answered quickly, voice low.

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Perfect, 1900, right?” Thrawn was rapidly nearing. Pryce tried not to fidget, wishing the Lieutenant didn’t look so _interested._

“Right,” she hissed, already turning away from him, but too late. Thrawn was at her elbow, one eyebrow ever so slightly raised in question.

“Ensign,” he said, voice implacable and flat.

“Sir,” she answered, matching his tone.

They took their leave of the group and headed to the turbolift. Pryce felt strangely exposed, caught, and an odd sense of déjà vu. She hoped Thrawn wouldn’t make it an issue. At least their lesson was supposed to be at 1700 today; she wouldn’t miss it by having a dinner date.

As the door slid shut, she closed her eyes briefly, willing the silence to remain. For some reason, the idea of discussing her plans was the last thing she wanted.

 _“Kumele shintshe kulobubusuku.”_ Thrawn wanted to change the time of her lesson. He’d switched into Sy Bisti easily, and Pryce responded with the same fluency.

 _“Nananinina ngaphandle ku 1900.”_ Anytime except seven, she told him.

“1930?” He’d switched to Basic.

“I have dinner plans,” Pryce answered, as calm as possible.

“I see.”

There was nothing to read in the two syllables. They were as dark and obscure as a polluted sea.

The turbolift doors opened, and he said nothing more about it. In the transport, Thrawn filled her in on what had been discussed after she’d left the room, the misguided plans and lack of vision among the Empire’s upper echelons clearly irritating him.

In fact, his mood was definitely not a good one, Pryce noted, a throb in Thrawn’s temple indicating some level of stress that was a rare physical manifestation of his temper.

Just before they arrived back on the _Thunder Wasp,_ Pryce debated asking further about her lesson. She wished to continue, didn’t want him to think it didn’t have importance to her. But she’d scheduled her dinner to avoid the conflict. Thrawn was the one making this difficult.

A few minutes to dock. Thrawn wasn’t looking at her, eyes unfocused. That blood vessel still pulsed. She swallowed, formed the phrase before speaking. She _wanted_ the lesson tonight, but he’d made it impossible.

 _“Ch’epasahn taseun’i.”_ They hadn’t spoken Cheunh outside of the lesson room since the club. Although no one would understand it, someone could still guess at the difference between the velarized consonants of the Chiss language and the melodic smoothness of Sy Bisti.

He looked at her then, red eyes smoldering, unreadable.

 _“Ch’epasahn taseun’i,”_ she repeated. _“Ch’acacah taseun’i.”_ I want the lesson. I like the lessons.

There was a soft jolt as the transport connected with its berth, and Thrawn stood up. Only seconds now until the silvered door opened. Pryce stood as well, feeling impossibly short standing just inches from his chest. Was he going to answer?

He did reply, but it was a rapid, condensed string of sounds, far harsher sounding than the litany of syllables that usually made up his “immersive” discourse. She barely understood any of it, struggling to determine where one word ended and the next began. Her brain picked up “like” and “want” which she’d used, “importance” she was pretty sure was in there, but everything else sounded warlike and unfamiliar.

The door opened and Thrawn took a breath, walking down the ramp and heading to the bridge. Pryce didn’t follow, although she wasn’t sure if she sensed his need for space or something else. Her respiration slowed with each step he took, easing as the distance between them increased.

He didn’t contact her after, and she decided to go to R5-638 at 1700 anyway, just in case he had been able to accommodate their original timeline at the last minute. Thrawn did not show, and after thirty minutes, Pryce returned to her cabin to get ready for her date.

~~

Rees was decent company, Pryce thought, but a little annoying with his incessant bubbliness. He did a good job of keeping her entertained, however, and she found him more interesting once she’d learned he was an aide to Vice Admiral Gredge. 

He seemed to think her work fascinating, asking lots of questions about what it was like to be an interpreter—the only one assigned to an officer in the entire Navy. She tried to answer glibly, pushing the memory of Thrawn’s tirade—that’s what it had sounded like—from her mind. 

Once again she wondered if it was her commander’s goal in life to control her, to stop her from independent pursuits. She knew he was committed to the success of his crew, but that served _him._ What about purely personal successes? Somehow Pryce doubted Thrawn had the same level of interest in those.

But that wasn’t entirely fair, was it? Her brain rebelled, reminding her about the fact of his patience, his kindness even, in teaching her Cheunh. _He wants to…_ Yes, that was true. Perhaps not entirely altruistic, but she couldn’t divine Thrawn’s purpose, if it wasn’t out of boredom, homesickness, or personal curiosity as to her abilities.

“Hey, you still here?” Blue eyes twinkled at her, so different from the scalding heat of Thrawn’s red stare. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Pryce apologized quickly, wondering how much she’d missed of what he’d been saying.

“It’s all right,” he said, sounding almost concerned. “You look a little tired. Am I boring?” The smile he punctuated the question with was undeniably cute.

“No, no,” she tried to focus on that smile. Rees…he looked so young. And he was going places, attached to a Vice Admiral. “I’m enjoying myself,” she added.

The smile broadened. “Oh, well, in that case—” The crackle of his comm interrupted. He glanced down, grimaced briefly. “The boss. Give me a second, sorry Arihnda.”

He stood up and Pryce watched, trying to overhear, but the restaurant was loud and Rees’ baritone was soft and low, easily covered by the din of conversation and bustling waitstaff. He returned, a bit sheepish, several minutes later.

“Emergency?”

“No, not exactly,” he sat back down. “But it is going to cut short our evening, I’m afraid.”

Pryce raised an eyebrow, trying to look coy. “Oh, we had post-dinner plans, too?”

He blushed like a teenager, and she bit back a laugh, but his recovery was quick. “Well, sure, dessert, right?”

“Right,” she smiled at him, picking up her fork again. “Well, we’ll just have dessert next time.”

She thought she could hear him salivate. 

~~

It bothered her, back in her cabin, that she hadn’t received any message from Thrawn. True, he normally sent the lesson times in the morning, but since he’d cancelled today—yes, it had been HIS fault it was cancelled, Pryce reassured her psyche—she would have expected something.

The night had been agreeable, nothing amazing. She had allowed Rees to kiss her goodnight, a clumsy, sweet attempt that had become a bit messy once she’d let him indulge. Some men just weren’t happy until they had their drool all over your face, she thought. But it was nice to feel attractive and engaging and wanted, and there may be benefits to the courtship. 

A Vice Admiral, particularly if his Lieutenant was smitten with the Ensign to the Empire’s sole alien officer, could bear influence. Could pull strings, issue orders, and grease the bureaucratic wheels that prevented her rise and placed obstacles in Thrawn’s path. Yes, Rees could be useful. And kissing could be taught.

~~

The next morning, there was no schedule addition on her datapad. Senior staff meeting had been cancelled, however. As she drank her caf, Pryce wondered at the change. She could comm Thrawn, she supposed. But it seemed wrong. If she had been a better slicer, she could have figured out a way to encrypt a message to him. 

After lunch, she still hadn’t received any updates, and went to the Bridge, wondering at the Chiss’s silence. Thrawn had not been present today, the shift supervisor informed her, apparently nervous at delivering this information. Odd. She would comm him, she decided. 

“Ensign.”

He’d answered immediately. So not indisposed, that much was clear.

“Commander.” She felt stupid all of a sudden. What was the reason for this? How childish, to bother him about her language lesson. He was the CO—he had other things to draw his attention. “You haven’t been on the bridge today. Just wanted to check in and see if you had need of assistance, sir.”

It sounded lame, but at least it also sounded official. After all, he could be sick, or have received unexpected requests from Coruscant.

“Thank you, Ensign.” A slight pause. “Tell the shift supervisor I will be there presently.”

“Yes, sir.” She complied, wondering if she should wait for him or avoid him. He certainly didn’t sound different. 

Finally, she gave up, heading to her workstation in the below level. About an hour later, her datapad chimed. The long short short chime that she looked forward to each morning.

_2100_

That was late. The latest it had ever been scheduled, actually. But she wouldn’t think about that now. She would be there.

~~

This time, when she arrived, even though it was a few minutes early, Thrawn was already in the room. He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, seemingly relaxed. 

_“Bun nuvci,”_ she offered, taking her regular seat. The Chiss used “good night” for a greeting rather than a farewell. She hadn’t had an opportunity to use it before, but was glad she’d remembered.

 _“Bun nuvci,”_ he returned, “ _veo catavt veaso?_ ” 

How was her appointment yesterday? Appointment. 

Maybe the word for “date” was the same as “appointment?” Pryce bit her lip. She wasn’t sure she had the vocabulary for this yet, but they had gone over military terms just last week.

 _“En’casar,”_ she told him. It _had_ been interesting, after all. “ _Tah tinur sir…”_ Ah damn, she didn’t know the word. Basic would have to do. “…Vice _ch’abcesit.”_

One eyebrow lifted as she informed him that her dinner companion worked for a Vice Admiral, but Thrawn only corrected her pronunciation of _‘ch’abcesit_ —the word for Admiral. After she’d fixed it, he then added _“ch’itzest ch’abcesit”._ She understood. That must be the word for Vice Admiral.

 _“En’casar?”_ He seemed to be questioning her evaluation of this fact as interesting. Pryce nodded, suddenly more confident in her vocabulary.

 _“Vatt’aco sir nen.” ‘Sir’_ was one of those Cheunh words she hated. By itself it meant “forest” but in various phrases it seemed to be some kind of subject marker or preposition, only it could also be used to mark modifiers. She had gotten better at instinctively inserting it, but was far from perfect. The fact that he hadn’t corrected her earlier use bolstered her confidence in using it again.

 _“Vatta’aco sir… **nen.** ”_ He once again repeated her phrase, but not due to an error of grammar or pronunciation. Thrawn’s eyes narrowed as he emphasized her use of the first person plural pronoun. “Helpful for us,” she had told him, wanting him to understand that connections in these high places would be a boon for them both.

 _“Mar,”_ she responded firmly.

His eyes became slits, something condemning in them, and Pryce felt a chill. What was wrong? She’d made perfect sense.

Thrawn launched into one of his discourses, and Pryce was amazed to find that she actually understood some of what he was saying. She had really come very far in very little time. He was a good teacher. But his words…she focused, trying to understand. He was repetitive this time, making more things stand out to her ears.

_…believe…made a mistake. No … I have a ship, I have a crew. We don’t need…There is no value…Why?...How? I ask…will do for this help…military…value…_

He leaned ever so slightly forward, nodding, seeing comprehension, however limited, in her eyes.

“Ensign...” Thrawn paused, and she bent towards him, surprised at this lapse into Basic. But it was fleeting, for her title only. _“Sir dashe push…sir tras push…csarcican’t tsurcecoecen’i?”_

 _Push_ was career…for your career, for my career. And there was that horrible future tense modifier before the verb that she had never heard before. _“Tsurcecoecen’i.”_ She doubted she could imitate its pronunciation well enough even to ask its meaning. But he had just used that so rare as to be almost extinct “ _dashe,_ ” that elusive possessive that didn’t appear anywhere on her vocabulary list. 

She’d never had a chance to ask him about it. He was asking if she would do something for their careers, but what, she didn’t know. 

Pryce decided to focus on the longer standing question first.

_“Veo nah ‘dashe’ viscisaci?”_

She thought she was asking why _‘dashe’_ wasn’t included in her vocabulary list. Thrawn jerked back against his seat, abruptly putting distance between them, and corrected her phrase, almost absently.

_“Veo nah s tisut ‘dashe’ can’wiz vuscisaci?”_

Pryce nodded, but he wouldn’t say anything until she repeated the question, correctly this time, so she did. Why wasn’t the word _‘dashe’_ included in the list he’d made her?

Thrawn explained quickly, using words she already knew, regarding the Cheunh possessive. _“Ch’aah”_ added to words was the Basic equivalent of an apostrophe ‘s’. But that didn’t answer her question. 

He pointed at her. _“Pryce ch’aah can’let’ehn.”_ Pryce’s ship. She understood, but that wasn’t answering her question, so she growled at him, annoyed, in Sy Bisti.

_I already do know the possessive—the third person possessive. You’re saying it is the second person possessive as well? That makes no sense. What about ‘dashe’? Why isn’t it on the list? It means “yours”, correct?_

She didn’t care about pulling the Cheunh from her brain, she wanted him to understand the question, and it was clear that he did. Even if she was breaking his rule and not using the words she knew to seek clarity. Thrawn leaned in again.

_“Dashe en’cecot.”_

Pryce didn’t understand the response. Why was he using a word he knew she didn’t know? Was _dashe_ outdated or archaic? 

_“En’cecot,”_ she repeated, as was her habit with new vocabulary. Thrawn nodded, his gaze locked on her. _“Itmon’o? ubasn’o nah?”_ May as well ask if it was a synonym for old or outdated.

The Chiss shook his head slowly, lips pressed together, the tight line preventing any expression from escaping. Pryce couldn’t tell if he was suppressing a smile or annoyance.

 _“En’cecot,”_ he reiterated. She certainly hoped Thrawn understood that repeating a word and hearing it again wouldn’t allow her to magically translate it, but he continued. _“En’car…ch’acert.”_

 _En’car_ was ‘between’. She knew that one. So it was used between…what? 

_“Nah rcisah rob,”_ Pryce sighed, wanting to put her head in her hands. She didn’t understand.

 _“Cabp. Cabpen.”_ Thrawn’s voice stayed serious, lower now. But it was two other words she didn’t know.

 _“Tsozah.”_ Show me, she was asking. Demonstrate. Sometimes Thrawn would be willing to pantomime, to use gestures or expressions to get a point across. She obviously needed help with this.

 _“Tsozah?”_ He looked dangerous all of a sudden, something intense about his stare. Pryce felt like this whole night was nothing but confusion, but nodded.

 _“Tsozah ‘en’cecot'.”_ Show me _en’cecot._ That was her request.

A pause. Something heavy and thick settled in the air between them, its origins mysterious. She waited.

Finally Thrawn stood up. Was he giving up for the night? Pryce thought they still had another half hour at least…and it wasn’t her fault he was using difficult phrases…but no, he crossed the short distance between them, silent as a hunter.

His hands reached for her, and unthinking, she placed her palms against his. Long, thin fingers closed around her pale skin, the contrast between them stark. Pryce stared at the clasp, her brain cataloging the feel of his dark flesh, cool and dry, rough and strong. Thrawn pulled her up—gently, slowly—from the chair. 

She expected to be set on her feet and let go, as anytime someone had helped her out of a seat before. But Thrawn continued to move her, pulling her hands, guiding them, and the woman attached, closer. His elbows bent in his stiff grey uniform tunic as he placed her fingers on his shoulders, pressing them firmly into the muscled arc sloping from his neck. Her breath caught, mind blank. The feel of him, solid and real under the pressure of her palms, seemed to limit her awareness. 

He nodded once her fingers settled into the fabric as if in approval. Pryce flexed them, seeing her fingertips whiten as she tightened the joints. Seemingly confident she wouldn’t remove them, he slid his own hands down her arms, over her shoulders, the sides of her ribs. He stopped at the soft indentation above the slight bend of her hips, snapping her forward in one strong motion, bringing the full line of her body flush against his.

Her legs were pressed to him, the cloth of their uniforms rubbed together, the swell of her breasts hard against his torso. 

Thought had ceased for Pryce, but her awareness was gradually expanding. She could feel his heat, a wave of it coming from his neck, radiating onto her fingers, still atop his shoulders. She could smell him, something enticing and unfamiliar, her nose suddenly full of his scent. She heard his breath, felt his respiration as his chest rose and fell, each time pushing against her own, a slight retreat, another advance. Beneath her fingers, under the grey wool, she sensed his strength, coiled and predatory. His hands dug into her waist, unrelenting and confident as he held her in place.

 _“Tras,”_ he whispered, studying her face. Pryce was grateful for the force of his grip, because her legs suddenly wanted to give out, something in his eyes turning her boneless and weak.

Mine. Like the start of some ritual antiphony, she knew what came next.

 _“Dashe,”_ Pryce replied, her voice as soft as his. What…

He tugged her even closer, and she gasped as she felt the length of him, hard, against her leg.

 _“En’cecot,”_ he insisted, in that perilous, sexy register.

 _“Tiscut…?”_ She couldn’t recall the word for ‘partners,’ the first half escaping her lips in a dazed moan. And she didn’t know the word for whatever this was... Why the hell should she? 

Thrawn held her gaze as if he could implant vocabulary in her brain through force of will. He slowly, barely, shook his head. Pryce blinked, fighting to breathe, and he was so close… so strong. She wondered vaguely if his hands would bruise her hips, leave imprints of his claim to her. 

She switched to Sy Bisti, finding the word she wanted buried, not even sure where she would have learned something like ‘lovers’ in the first place. But its presence in her memory made more sense than anything else that was happening right now… 

What were they doing? Why was she still pressed against Thrawn’s erection like it was meant for her?

 _“Izithandwa?”_ It came out choked, uneven.

 _“Mar. Ch’acert.”_ The words were weighted, serious, no humor in them, no tease. Then, after an endless pause… 

_“Dashe.”_ When Thrawn said it, the pronoun boiled with something dark and sweet.

Somewhere in the haze of her mind Pryce pulled the memory of his earlier phrase. _En’car ch’acert._ Between lovers. That was why “ _dashe”_ wasn’t on her vocabulary list. It wasn’t meant to be used… not in normal conversation. But she had—that first night, unknowingly… And he had more than once—knowingly…

Nothing made sense.

 _“Bacin’bah?”_ His voice was still low, his eyes still burning into hers. He was so close, she marveled, seeing the detail of pores in the smooth blue skin.

Pryce had been so focused on his face she didn’t register the word immediately. Questions? Only about a million. What the hell was going on? Why did he feel so good and why was her body arching into his, unasked and brazen? Was this just a classroom demonstration gone too far or was Thrawn as aroused as she was? Surely his cock couldn’t feel like this all the time, she was certain…

He was waiting for an answer.

 _“Rcisah rob,”_ Pryce breathed, a lie. She didn’t understand a single thing that had happened in the last few minutes. 

His fingers seemed to tighten against her, an almost painful squeeze, and then, abruptly, he stepped away, leaving her hands to drop heavily into the empty space his body had just vacated.

Pryce watched them fall, mute, confused. What should she have done? Asked another question? What could she possible say that would make any sense at all? And why did she feel a rush of disappointment, cold and penetrating, suddenly flood her veins like a drug?

Thrawn had already retaken his seat, ankle again crossed over knee, shielding the evidence of his reaction to that “demonstration.” He watched her calmly, as if the space between them a moment ago hadn’t been razor-thin and full of heated promise.

Feeling like she was dreaming, Pryce sat back down. The lesson was apparently going to continue. She should have asked him why he used the word with her…She hadn’t known the implied meaning, but he had, and…he’d never corrected her. What did that mean? Why had he never corrected her? Why had he _used_ it?

Well, it was too late for these questions now, wasn’t it? Pryce tried to imitate the nonchalance that her teacher was projecting.

 _“Bint’das,”_ she said then; her voice didn’t shake as expected, _“sir tsozah.”_ Thank you for the demonstration. Couldn’t get much more sterile than that, she congratulated herself. Her CO, her superior, her…boss, had just shoved his erection against her leg and she’d thanked him. Surely that showed some level of superhuman composure.

Thrawn smiled briefly, but it wasn’t a pleasant look, grim and distant. Instead of offering her the ritual phrase in response, he started with another series of sentences, rapid and low. 

Pryce knew she should pay attention, but her eyes were drawn to his lips as they moved, the flash of teeth and tongue behind their dark tint. He’d been so close seconds ago, she could have kissed him. Could have tasted the dark stain of his mouth, learned his flavor. 

She looked at the muscles in this throat next, hearing the foreign language spill from his lips like mystic incantations. His jaw, strong and cruel in its lines, framed his features like a necessary boundary, a border to contain his angles and edges.

Thrawn had stopped talking and she said nothing, having no idea if he’d given her an instruction or asked a question. Pryce licked her lips, trying to focus. 

_“Nah ch’ao’rvott.”_ His voice was clipped, stern.

He was right. She hadn’t been listening. Pryce had no response, trying to tame the raging blood that was still pounding a steady tattoo in her ears. It wasn’t like she ever understood his extended orations anyway, she thought, annoyed at how her skin was still tingling from where he’d touched her, remembering the smell of him, the press of him against her, rigid and resolute.

 _“Tisbuntra,”_ she made herself apologize. Pryce concentrated on holding his stare, not backing down from the fiery gaze that seemed to see through her, read all the way to the back of her skull. It was as if he were evaluating the sincerity of her codified request for forgiveness with eyes alone. Pryce realized she was holding her breath and forced an exhalation. She wouldn’t be the first one to blink.

The raised leg lowered to the ground, Thrawn planting his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. Without knowing how, Pryce sensed his anger, but wasn’t sure what had prompted it. He’d started it, hadn’t he? What did he expect of her?

 _“Veo ch’epasahn tasn’ah?”_ The words were low, challenging. She struggled to understand the purpose of this question now, when they were so far past it. Why did she want to learn? She’d told him, almost a month ago, now.

Another test, Pryce realized, slow comprehension sidling alongside her muddled thoughts. Knowing what she knew now, that _dashe_ was infused with intimacy, saddled with tenderness, she could hardly give him the same response as she had back then. In her stupidity, her eagerness to show off, she’d used a word she barely understood. For all she knew, the trader whose list she’d learned it from could have gotten his Cheunh glossary from a cantina whore. No wonder Thrawn had looked at her so intensely when she’d used it, thrown it at him as if she knew what she was saying.

The realization made her cheeks flame with embarrassment. And then tonight, asking him to … show her…

_“Veo ch’epasahn tasn’ah?”_

He hadn’t blinked, still fixed on her, repeating the words. She couldn’t avoid answering. Pryce swallowed, trying to summon calm, arranging her face into a mask of inexpression.

 _“Cseit Thrawn ch’aah ten’hz.”_ Because it’s your language. 

Her reasoning hadn’t changed. But now, she could say it the way he’d instructed, preferred—the second person possessive identical to the third. Yes, she’d used his core name, no title, but it seemed correct, to her, this way. He’d rebuke her if she’d stepped over the line, she hoped, tell her if she’d made a mistake or insulted him again. But then, he hadn’t insisted she eliminate _“dashe”_ from her lexicon. So she no longer knew what her teacher hoped to accomplish through formality.

 _“Neo ten’hz,”_ he said, voice gentler. _“Non.”_

She smiled, surprising herself, his shift in demeanor reassuring and unexpected, after…whatever had just happened. Yes. Our language now. He’d shared it with her, and she had already learned a great deal. She understood his phrase, that was a clear victory, the words wrapping like a blanket around her bruised ego.

He smiled back, the expression dismantling her newfound calm. The lift of his mouth was reflected in his eyes, the small lines around them deepening. Pryce realized that out of all the smiles she’d ever seen on his face—some cold, some amused, some calculated and deliberate—this may be the first genuine one.

_“Ch’ao’rvott non.”_

_Listen now._ She nodded. And she listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, using the Coruscant translator, hopefully the fic elucidates most of these words through context--I swear it's not my goal to make everyone fluent in a fictional language, and it shouldn't be necessary to enjoy the story, but here's a list!
> 
> Glossary of Cheunh in the order it appears in the text (Chapter 3):
> 
> veo=interrogative (what/why/how)  
> tsan’ah nah=mistake/error  
> cssah=intensifier (very)  
> ch’acopah=amusing/funny/comical  
> cazeban’t=Evidently/Clearly  
> can’let’ehn=ship  
> tun’ci=bridge  
> vikam=mess/cafeteria  
> ch’epasahn=to want (first person implied)  
> taseun’i=lesson/s  
> ch’acacah=to like (first person implied)  
> bun nuvci=Good night (greeting)  
> veo catavt veaso?=How was the appointment?  
> en’casar=Interesting  
> tah tinur sir=He works for  
> ch’abcesit=Admiral  
> ch’itzest ch’abcesit=Vice Admiral  
> vatt’aco sir nen=Helpful for us  
> mar=yes  
> sir dashe push=for your career  
> sir tras push=for my career  
> csarcican’t=turns a verb into future tense/future marker (i.e. will/would)  
> tsurcecoecen’i=prostitute (verb)  
> veo nah=Why not/why isn't (negative interrogative)  
> dashe=yours (second person possessive)  
> vuscisaci=vocabulary  
> tisut=word  
> can'wiz=list  
> ch'aah=possession marker (equivalent of 's when added to a noun)  
> en'cecot=intimate  
> itmon'o=old  
> ubasn'o nah=not modern  
> en'car=between  
> ch'acert=lovers  
> nah=negation marker/not/no/none  
> rcisah rob=understand  
> cabp=husband  
> cabpen=wife  
> tsozah=Demonstrate/Show  
> tras=Mine  
> tiscut'san'in'ci=Partners  
> bacin'bah=Question/s  
> bint'das=thank you  
> ch'ao'rvott=listening  
> tisbuntra=forgive me  
> tasn’ah=to learn  
> cseit=because  
> Thrawn ch’aah=Thrawn's/your (3rd person used as 2nd person for formality's sake)  
> ten'hz=language  
> neo=our  
> non=now
> 
> Sy Bisti (mangled Zulu):  
> Kumele shintshe kulobubusuku.=We must change this evening  
> Nananinina ngaphandle ku 1900=Anytime except 7 pm  
> Izithandwa=lovers/someone or something dear to you


	4. Anaphora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Empire makes Pryce an offer she can't refuse.

Four days passed. The _Thunder Wasp_ finally made it to the top of the repair list, and work crews were busy in all levels and at all hours. The R deck was included in the defensive reinforcement work, and there was no schedule adjustment on her datapad this morning.

Pryce felt ridiculous, checking the screen at least six times in the first hour from the time she woke up. There were hundreds of reasons that Thrawn may be unable to teach her today, the repairs just one of them.

She sipped her caf, sinking onto the edge of the bed. Lieutenant Palas had commed her yesterday, twice, and she hadn’t returned his messages. The memory of his sloppy kiss and groping hands held no allure, and Pryce was frustrated at herself for comparing his touch to Thrawn’s. There could be no comparison. She was torturing herself.

She’d tried not to think too much about her foolishness the other night, how Thrawn had held her against him, how she’d been seized with the urge to taste his lips. He was her CO, and he was an alien, and if fraternization restrictions hadn’t already made him off-limits, her own ambition should recognize the folly of such an affair. It would destroy his career, and hers.

It was difficult to put the experience entirely from her thoughts though, and unfortunately it was usually at inappropriate times that she remembered. Yesterday, reviewing work orders at his side on the bridge, her chest had tightened at the simple bend of his finger pointing to a line item. The day before that, discussing upcoming deployments and troop interoperability, her stomach had somersaulted as his arm brushed hers when reaching for a datacard. 

There was something erotic about simply being in his presence now, knowing what his body felt like beneath the stiff material covering his shoulders, how his hands felt against her waist, how the outline of his cock felt bruising against her thigh.

Pryce ate, as usual, on the run, heading to the senior staff meeting, still trying to tear her thoughts from her commander and his lack of communication this morning.

Her rationale was confirmed when Thrawn announced he’d been summoned, _alone,_ to attend a meeting at the ISB. He looked pointedly at her, as if to confirm she wasn’t invited. Rukh would accompany him, but no, her services would not be needed. Nodding, Pryce left the office wordlessly with the rest of the staff. No lesson today.

Out of frustration or spite, she commed Palas back during her lunch break. Of _course_ she couldn’t have Thrawn. Maybe a distraction, however callow or inept, was just what was required to yank her thoughts from what would never be realized.

“Arihnda!”

Perky as always, Pryce thought, with an internal sigh. 

“Hi Rees, sorry it’s been busy, just got your messages.”

“Great! Do you have a second to talk?” He sounded chipper and she tried to put similar energy in her voice, despite thinking _“Of course, idiot, I commed you remember?”_

“Absolutely,” she replied instead. “How’s life aboard the _Scourge_ today?”

He laughed. “It’s boring. You want to stop by? See the I-Class in all its glory? We’re in dock, got some quick refitting this afternoon. Rumor is we’re leaving for Darpa in less than a standard week, but I don’t know—sounds ambitious.”

Her ears perked up. Inviting her to visit his Star Destroyer? She might even be able to meet his boss, Vice Admiral Gredge. This could be a chance for her—a way to stand out, to see if there was another path forward that would give her talents a better showcase than she had here. A perpetual Ensign, passed over for promotion more times than she could count, the collateral damage of Thrawn’s unpopularity.

Pryce quickly went over her schedule in her head. She had a few things she could move around, and the duty officer owed her a favor anyway.

“That sounds nice. What time?” She kept her voice as even as she could, given her current level of excitement at her rapidly improving prospects.

“Hang on a sec, Arihnda.” Palas didn’t sound surprised, which rang an alarm bell somewhere in the back of her brain, but Pryce pushed it away. Of course her willingness to visit him aboard his ship maybe implied something… _En’cecot,_ her memory supplied, the word chilling her spine. _Intimate._ She didn’t—

“Sorry to keep you waiting. How’s 1630? You’ll have to take a shuttle to get here, I can send one to pick you up at Space Dock 925M at 1600?” The alarm bells in her head got a little louder. Very specific, as if it were a real appointment. It hadn’t taken him long to arrange, either. And he wouldn’t pick her up, but send a shuttle? Pryce bit her lip, hard, to steady her nerves, and made herself respond. 

“Sounds fine. I’ll be there, Rees.”

“Great, thank you Arihnda. Looking forward to it.” He closed the comm without another word, and Pryce looked at it in her hand with a mixture of confusion and disgust. 

What was going on? 

~~

The shuttle was punctual, as was she, and as it ferried her towards the Victory I-Class Star Destroyer, she felt her breath catch. The ship was enormous, housing almost 5000 crew. And Rees’ CO was ruler over all of them. A Vice Admiral. Someone with real political clout, power, friends in high places.

They docked and she straightened her tunic as the ramp lowered, smoothing her hair. Whatever Rees had planned for her, she’d be ready, she thought, shouldering her small bag that held a discreet change of clothes. She hadn’t felt right wearing civilian items, even if she was not technically visiting in any official capacity.

She walked down the ramp, and Rees was there, looking crisp and official, the smile on his face looking more false than she’d remembered. And next to him…

“You must be Ensign Pryce,” said Vice Admiral Gredge. 

She saluted smartly. “Vice Admiral, permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Permission granted. At ease, Ensign,” he smiled, and Pryce thought the Vice Admiral looked friendlier at this moment than her would-be paramour, whose smile had now turned sickly, something wrong with it. Had she ever found him attractive, she wondered, feeling foolish and superior at the same time.

“Thank you Vice Admiral,” she nodded, still ramrod straight.

“I thought perhaps we could welcome you aboard with some refreshments? Lieutenant Palas has told me a great deal about you.”

“That sounds outstanding, thank you sir,” she shot back quickly, then, as they started walking, found a moment to fire a devastating glare at Palas who didn’t even wince. What the hell? He could have warned her. She wasn’t complaining, exactly, this _was_ the level of attention she had been seeking, but…

The ship was beautiful, the corridors sparkling from polish. The crew gave off a sense of contentment and respect as Gredge strode down the passageways, not the stiff fear that often accompanied the path of a commanding officer. As they walked, Gredge made small talk, mentioning he was from Brentaal, asking about her homeworld, her family, and Pryce grew more and more suspicious. Yes, it was reasonable to expect he may be interested in his aide-de-camp’s crush, but Gredge seemed a little _too_ unhurried. Surely if they had a deployment on the horizon, he had better things to be doing than entertaining a lowly Ensign?

They arrived at the Admiral’s Mess, a spacious and spectacular dining room that had been laid out for an afternoon meal. There were small cakes and caf, as well as an assortment of juices and a tea from her native Lothal. 

The alarm bells that had sounded in her brain back on the _Thunder Wasp_ blared a warning. Nothing was normal about this. She wasn’t stupid. They wanted something from her. She just needed to make sure that whatever it was, she was paid a fair price for it.

She sat at Gredge’s cue, and accepted a Tarine tea and biscuit from the cadet attending. The Vice Admiral sat at the head of the table, Rees to his left, Pryce to his right. It made for an odd tableau.

Once the server had left, Gredge took a sip of his caf and smiled again at her.

“Well, I imagine this all seems a bit odd to you, doesn’t it, Ensign?”

“Yessir,” she replied, smiling back, “but I’m so pleased to have an opportunity to meet you and visit your impressive ship. It’s an honor.” She turned to acknowledge Rees, knowing if he was a favored son, a little praise couldn’t hurt. “I must thank your Lieutenant for inviting me. He speaks very highly of his work.”

Rees smiled tightly at her and said nothing.

“We do, as you may have guessed, Ensign, have more than pure hospitality in mind.” The Vice Admiral set down his cup and lifted his index fingers and thumbs as if to express inevitability, but he was watching her carefully.

“I am at your service, Vice Admiral,” she replied quickly.

“Wonderful, Ensign Pryce. Allow me to explain.”

And he did explain. Clearly and succinctly. The _Scourge_ was about to be deployed, as Rees had hinted, to the Darpa Sector. It was located in the Core Worlds, ones that Gredge was familiar with—had grown up nearby—but also contained the Perlemian Trade Route. 

Pryce was familiar with it. The route started at Coruscant, and was therefore well-populated and heavily explored. With the Corellian Run, it was perhaps the most critical commercial artery in the Empire, running along The Slice, and the _Scourge_ would be sent to patrol and keep order along its hyperlanes, from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim, up to and including the recent expansion of the route to the edges of Wild Space.

Pryce sucked in a breath, nodding.

“Do you understand, Ensign? I need someone with your skills…a linguist…” Gredge looked in earnest, but there was something calculating lurking behind his eyes. One didn’t rise to the rank of Vice Admiral without mastering the art of manipulation and subterfuge, and Pryce tried to figure out his hidden agenda even as she smiled encouragingly.

“And not just a linguist,” he continued, “I understand from Lieutenant Palas that you actually have an MOS in PsyOps. That’s something we could use, perhaps even more than your language skills.”

Pryce couldn’t believe her ears. Not just a transfer, but no longer chained to the interpreter billet. Her reaction flickered across her features, just a moment, but it was enough for Gredge to see he had her. His smile broadened and then he controlled it to a thinner upturn of his mouth.

“I see you like that idea.” He pushed back from the table. “Shall we start the formalities?”

“Sir…” She had to be careful. It couldn’t be this simple. 

She knew Gredge outranked Thrawn, but she had a special assignment to the Chiss, and didn’t know if a mere transfer order would be enough to free her from the _Thunder Wasp’_ s shadow. Something niggling in the back of her thoughts told her there was more to this. Why would Gredge take such an interest in her? Yes, she spoke Sy Bisti, and not many did. But surely _someone_ else did, somewhere, in one of the Outer Rim worlds. And he didn’t know about the Cheunh…there was no way he could. That was a secret held by two. 

Also, she thought, glancing again at Rees, this had to be more than pleasing his lieutenant. After all, bringing her aboard the ship would guarantee the end of any relationship. She’d be in Rees’ chain of command, and fraternization was prohibited. Pryce fought back her anger at the epiphany; her first instincts about him had been right. He wasn’t interested in her romantically. There was an ulterior motive. There always had been.

“Vice Admiral,” she started again, swallowing the rising bile in her throat, “this is an amazing offer and I am grateful for your interest.” He was watching her closely, eyes slightly narrowing. “I wonder how best to obtain Commander Thrawn’s authorization.”

And there it was, the light in Gredge’s dark brown eyes glinted, pleased with himself. He waved a careless hand. “Commander Thrawn’s authorization will not be required.” He paused. “Do you believe he would refuse his aide this opportunity?”

“I have been with him since his first assignment, sir. At his request.” The words were meant to sound sterile, but came out with a tinge of poorly-concealed pride.

Gredge’s expression turned into something of a smirk, the temperature of his voice dropping several degrees. 

“Should the Commander refuse, I would be happy to educate him regarding matters of rank and needs of the service, Ensign Pryce. One…” he paused as if debating what noun to insert, “…alien’s wishes do not take precedence over those of the Navy.”

“Of course, sir, as you say,” Pryce agreed. She had her answer. This wasn’t about her at all. This was about Thrawn and the xenophobia institutionalized by the Empire. They wanted to wound him, to take away his status, strip him of all special treatment. She was, as Rees had noted, the only interpreter assigned to an officer. 

Her head was reeling, and she took a sip of tea to steady herself. It tasted of home, of Lothal’s air and mornings. She swallowed it, remembering in a rush why she’d gone to the Academy in the first place. To get away from the familiar, to leave the taste of these comforts and find success on her own terms. This could be her chance.

And she only had to sacrifice Thrawn to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shorter chapter is a little light on Cheunh. Just the one so vividly demonstrated by Thrawn last chapter: _en'cecot_ =intimate.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading. <3


	5. Fricatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation. A capitulation. A consummation.

Pryce didn’t go back to the _Thunder Wasp_ immediately upon her return to the planet surface. She had too much to think about, and curfew wasn’t until 2200. 

The night sky was always too bright here, she reflected, looking up at the neon atmosphere, speeders and transports crisscrossing the skylanes and blotting out the stars with their artificial radiance. Pryce didn’t want to go below, to the lower levels of Coruscant where the seedier underbelly of the capital was allowed to thrive in total darkness—she preferred the open air, even if it there was nothing comforting in it.

She’d taken her leave of the Vice Admiral with poise and thanks for his interest in her career and welfare. He’d nodded congenially, putrid victory in his eyes. He was looking forward to working with her, of course, he’d promised. 

Rees had walked her to the shuttle bay, silent the whole way. He seemed to feel guilt associated with his deceptive role in the charade leading up to his CO’s sales pitch. As annoying as it was, Pryce couldn’t allow bad blood to simmer between her and a future shipmate. Especially if she wished to advance. 

Upon reaching the ramp, she’d turned and smiled blindingly at him. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I know this wasn’t easy for you.”

He looked completely taken aback, and managed a nod, then a tentative smile, that energetic aura subdued but near.

“It—” he saw something hard in her eyes and started again. “I’m sorry.” The smile didn’t fade, though. “You know, the Vice Admiral said he’s going to put in for your promotion along with the transfer.” A real grin now. “If he gets his way, you’ll outrank me.”

That was welcome news, and interesting. Further proof she was making the right choice. She tried to look gracious rather than smug. 

“That’s very kind of him.” Her blue eyes glittered into his, something vindictive barely suppressed within. “I take care of my subordinates, Lieutenant.” She doubted Palas was clever enough to recognize the scorn in her words.

He laughed, the sound forced and unsure. “I’ll count on that, Arihnda,” he said.

“Ensign Pryce,” she corrected him, unsmiling. If all went well, it would be the last time he used that lowly rank to address her.

“Ensign Pryce, apologies,” Palas mumbled, and had more than a little trouble meeting her eyes as she nodded her farewell.

The exchange repeated in her brain as she headed slowly back towards Thrawn’s ship. Her feet seemed too loud on the duracrete walkway, her legs heavy and reluctant. But it was almost curfew, and she had no choice. 

The _Thunder Wasp_ looked fragile and weak compared to the _Scourge_ Pryce thought, crossing into its innards and picking up the pace as she walked briskly to the central turbolift. She had been granted her afternoon liberty, but her heart was nonetheless pounding in her chest as if she’d gotten away with a secret crime. And perhaps she had, although betrayal of the type she’d just committed hardly seemed worthy of consideration when compared to the corruption built into the system surrounding and sustaining her.

The turbolift doors opened, the fluorescent lighting stinging her eyes as usual after the night’s more diffused illumination. It reminded her of her last late return to these quarters, and the man who’d accompanied her down this hallway. The absence of his footsteps was overt, sonically bizarre, leaving something deficient in the air. Thrawn’s tread was like a fingerprint, unique and all his own. She had grown to recognize it from a distance. 

Would Vice Admiral Gredge’s footfalls become familiar in the same way?

How sentimental, Pryce berated herself, arriving at her door and punching in the entry code. It swished open cleanly, her hand reaching for the lights as she set her shoulder bag on the floor and lay on the bed. 

It didn’t do to dwell on what was done. It was inevitable, she supposed, that Thrawn’s arrogance and intractability would catch up to him. She’d warned him, tried to guide him. Yes, she’d been able to steer him through some of the worst quagmires, but he’d been unable to bring her along with him as he rose in the ranks. 

She had to think about herself. And loyalty was overrated—something for idealists and stormtroopers.

Pryce, like her CO, was a strategist.

With a sigh, she sat up, starting to unbutton her tunic, when she noticed the message light on her datapad. Her heart sped up as she opened the comms panel.

_2000_

Yes, he’d sent for her, for a class, and she had been out wandering the streets. Pryce groaned, rapidly excising the disappointment that welled in her chest before it had a chance to develop into something malignant. She had to be rational. 

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise—what in the world was she supposed to tell him? She needed at least another night to consider her course of action. Pretend surprise, ignorance when the transfer order came through? Or confide in Thrawn as if she’d been against it, try to keep him as an ally while sabotaging any efforts to thwart Gredge’s will?

_2000_

She read it three times before clicking off the screen. She’d apologize tomorrow. For now, she needed to get into her fresher and wash away the dust and grime of the filthy metropolis that she loved and hated in equal measure.

~~

The methodical routine of cleaning up was the type of mindless distraction she needed. Pryce didn’t like sanisteams, but she’d long since gotten used to them. She took her time, washing her short hair twice, letting the heat open her skin, biting away dirt with chemical cleanliness. 

When she scrubbed her hips, she checked the faint yellow and cobalt ovals that dotted her skin. They hadn’t faded yet. Thrawn had indeed bruised her the other night. Those marks had been purple the next morning—darker than the indigo of his skin. A souvenir of his intemperance. Pryce hadn’t minded, though, more awed than angry at this proof of what had happened between them. 

What was wrong with her? Pryce bit back frustration at her own reaction, to remember how he’d held her body against him, the way his gaze had fascinated and mesmerized. His fingers had been so gentle on hers when he’d pulled her from her chair. When had they turned to stone? The same time the rest of him had? She closed her eyes, shutting off the sanisteam. This was not just unproductive, this was preposterous. Within a week, Gredge had promised. A week was nothing. She could withstand inappropriate thoughts of her superior officer for that long. 

Pryce reached for her towel and wrapped it around her, letting her wet hair sit flat against her scalp and moved back into her small cabin.

To see Thrawn sitting at the tiny modular desk, facing her. Expressionless.

Adrenaline flooded her system as she fought for calm. She knew he had her entry code, of course—he’d made his knowledge of it quite clear. And she _had_ missed his lesson this evening. Perhaps he hadn’t checked her schedule to see it updated with the liberty authorization?

These thoughts flittered through her head in an instant. She had to speak, establish some power over the situation. But—

“Ensign.” Thrawn remained seated, and for some reason that relieved her. His tone held nothing, no clue as to his mood, but Pryce imagined she could feel his wrath like a solid thing creeping along the floor in her direction. She knew him. And he was not pleased. 

“Commander, I’m afraid this isn’t a very good time.”

Stating the obvious, but clearly, politely. 

He growled something in Cheunh at her. She wasn’t ready for it, too proud of her unruffled delivery, how her voice had not shaken like her fingers threatened to do, clutching the hem of the towel. Her brain valiantly tried to interpret his words, but Thrawn had already recovered from the lapse in his composure.

“It seems there are many times you find inconvenient.” He took a measured breath, and she felt shock at the realization that Thrawn was … upset? Something other than simply angry. “Of late.”

Pryce stopped her sigh of relief just in time. This was about the missed lesson, not her pending transfer. Thank the stars—he didn’t know, not yet. She drew herself up straighter, trying not to think about the fact that she was wearing nothing but a towel, and he was staring at her like she wasn’t.

 _“Tisbuntra,”_ she apologized. Forgive me. 

The plea had been a mistake, she knew as soon as the Cheunh left her lips.

Perhaps it reminded him of what he’d entrusted her with—his secret language, his mother tongue. Thrawn stood up then, and although he did not advance across the small expanse of her room, he seemed to darken and overtake the space.

 _“Vitcehah,”_ she whispered, but he hadn’t even moved. The “stop” had just slipped out, and she wondered if she was trying to command herself or him. His lips responded with a twist, his hands at his sides. He’d heard.

“Why?” The question was simple but fell from his lips like toxic ice. He took a step closer, a dare, testing her. She had spoken to him in his language, yet he was speaking to her in hers. Basic, not Cheunh.

She could do this, turn this around on him. Pryce held her ground.

“Sir, if you’ll give me a moment, I can meet you somewhere to discuss. This—” she lifted a hand palm up, to indicate her room, “—is inadvisable. If you were seen entering the barracks…” He took another step towards her. A small one. “—or here, in my room—” Her pulse pounded, a renewed drumbeat resonating in her chest, her wrists, her temples. 

“This is my ship,” Thrawn answered, voice deadly calm. The left side of his mouth tilted, an uneven curve that was as far from amusement as a smile could get. “All rooms are my rooms.”

Another step. What the hell could she say to that?

 _“Tras.”_ The way he pronounced that word still made her spine soften and stomach fold over on itself. _“Rcisah rob?”_

 _“Rcisah rob,”_ she wondered what he wanted, what this was about, ultimately. Language no longer seemed to be about communication, it was something far more hazardous. An abyss beckoning, a tempest ready to sweep her into shadows.

He said something else, a whispered mélange of Cheunh. It sounded like a threat, none of the words familiar, and a chill crept from her neck to her ears. Another stride and he was less than an arm’s length from her. Pryce refused to retreat, motionless, trying not to react.

“Tell me, Ensign,” he spoke in that infuriatingly low voice, the one she felt like distant thunder resonating places it shouldn’t. “Did your Vice Admiral help? _Vatt’ah **nen**?”_

There was so much poison dripping from his tongue, she felt breathless, only remembering to inhale when her lungs launched a protest. _Help **us?**_

This wasn’t _fair,_ Pryce thought, fighting to make sense of her tangled thoughts, to retaliate with words to make him feel as dirty and craven as she did at this moment. How did he know? How had he found out? Had Gredge already contacted him, taunted him with her betrayal?

“Commander…” she started, feeling a strange sting behind her eyes. Yes, she’d naïvely suggested they both could benefit from Rees’ association with a senior official…but how could Thrawn blame her for wanting to improve her situation? He was an outcast, and she was shunned by association. She’d never _asked_ for this. She had other plans for herself.

Thrawn turned abruptly, back to her desk, seizing her datapad and punching in her passcode without pause. She barely had an instant to wonder how he knew that one as well—did she have any secrets left?—when he was back before her half-naked body, thrusting the dimly glowing screen at her face.

_INTERSERVICE ASSET TRANSFER ORDERS_  
_PRYCE, Arihnda, Ens. Thunder Wasp, Special Attachée_  
_To proceed on permanent deployment as shown._  
_Assigned to: Scourge, Psychological Operations Deputy Chief_  
_Reporting Date: Immediate_  
_Associated Action: Promotion effective upon transfer: Senior Lieutenant_

She was stunned. They must have already had this prepared, no way would the Imperial bureaucracy have pushed through a transfer and promotion in less than three hours at the end of a workday. Was she so transparent? So obviously disloyal that they had anticipated this and simply moved her into position like a pawn on a holochess board to expose Thrawn to attack?

Thrawn must have seen her shock, but stayed silent, letting his displeasure seep into the air surrounding them, working its way between her skin and the towel barely shielding her from his eyes.

Words stuck in her throat—Basic, Sy Bisti, Cheunh. Was this what she’d wanted? To leap up a few ranks, to leave him behind like a bad memory? To go work side by side with those whose estimations of her motivations were as unflattering as they were correct? Pryce was afraid to look at Thrawn, seeing his fingers holding the datapad’s edge before her eyes, watching, staring, until the screen automatically dimmed from disuse. He threw it across the room, a flick of his wrist sailing it onto her desk. The clatter as it landed made her flinch.

“Thrawn…” she’d dropped his title, not even registering she had until the name escaped her lips. She managed to meet his eyes then. Their red glowed liquid, the lava there weakening her. Pryce fought to focus. She needed to make every part of herself—inside and out—harder, immune to his rage, set in her purpose. 

_“Hsicoti,”_ he snarled at her, for the first time seeming to notice she was so exposed, his eyes travelling from her face to her neck, down to her chest that was bound by the waffled Zeyd-cloth tucked around her. _“Ravri’ihah ten?”_

She knew “congratulations” from the “common phrases” portion of her vocabulary list. And she could guess from his tone at meaning of the guttural verb that preceded the male third person pronoun. His assumption rankled.

“No, I didn’t fuck him,” she bit back, seeing in his face that she’d deduced correctly. Did Thrawn’s low opinion of her allow _him_ to assume the worst as well? The idea hurt, and she lashed out. 

“Fuck _you._ What would you have me do, _Commander?”_ The words flew furiously from her lips. There was more, but she forced her mouth closed, and Thrawn saw it.

“By all means, continue,” he said, his voice tight. But she didn’t want to go on, didn’t want to cut him down with words about how he couldn’t offer her the same prospects, give her the same opportunities. They both knew it.

She shook her head. “You know.” _Dah rsah,_ her mind offered, but she dare not speak it. Using his language felt wrong now, like she was no longer worthy. It hurt to admit, but it was true. She tried to explain.

“I didn’t want this.” She wished for that to be true. Pryce couldn’t quite articulate what was wrong, but this was as close as she could come to an honest admission of choosing badly, of taking the easy path instead of the rockier, difficult one at his side. Was she lying? Pryce wasn’t even certain. But standing here with him, it felt like she had made a mistake, and it _wasn’t._ It couldn’t be. Because it was too late, even if it wasn’t a lie.

Thrawn raised one hand, his index finger lifted slightly, hovering in the air. There was nothing tentative about it; it felt patient and purposeful as it approached her. Pryce held her breath as he glided it into the hollow of her throat, tracing a line along her right collarbone.

_“Veo ch’epasahn, taskebah?”_

She understood the question, even if she didn’t understand the last word. And the answer was she wanted _this._ She wanted him to touch her like she was something precious and delicate, not doonium and jagged glass. She wanted him to murmur the savage words of his homeworld in darkness, bleeding desire and heat into her ears, making her body clench and sigh around him.

His finger reached the line of her arm, trailing the muscle of her bicep, slowly, as if her limb were infinite and time were meaningless. Her breath caught as he reached her hand, trailing down the wrist bone, over her knuckles, to the tip of her index finger. He was going to leave her, deny her his touch now, she was certain. And equally certain that neither of them wanted that.

Pryce turned her palm up, taking his hand and covering it with her other. She held him, examining for a moment. Thrawn’s fingers were elegant and strong, she thought, contemplating the blue skin, the perfect ovals of his fingernails, the uneven bumps of his knuckles, the lines eddying his joints. He let her look. They had never covered anatomy…she didn’t even know the word for ‘hand’.

 _“Veo cart to tisut sir …”_ She squeezed gently, applying pressure to his palm with all ten of her fingers.

Thrawn laughed softly, a bloodless sound. Pryce tensed, wondering whether or not to let go of him.

“It seems,” he said then, voice coated with bitterness, “you have no more need of Cheunh vocabulary.”

Pryce felt his denial like a knife to her guts, cold and steely. She couldn’t fix this. She hadn’t fooled him. Thrawn’s hand slowly closed around her fingers where she held him, his other lifting with deliberation and intent to where her towel was tucked inside itself.

She knew what was coming; it seemed both unavoidable and scripted as his index finger slid beneath the tenuous fold, causing the damp fabric to drop soundlessly to the ground.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, naked before him. Petrified and aroused by his touch, confused and ashamed at her unscrupulous ambition being revealed to him more than her body. 

Pryce opened her mouth to speak but it was too late, he was already looming before her, the hand that had exposed her moving to cradle her throat, warm and menacing, his thumb sliding along the underside of her jaw.

“Thrawn—”

_“Retan’cehah.”_

She didn’t know what it meant, but it was indisputably a command, and Pryce swallowed. Her neck flexed against his palm as his grip tightened. A tremor ran through her body, from her toes to her eyeballs, everything rippling; she fought for control as his touch threatened her sense of reality. 

“You want this.” His words were matter of fact, and Pryce tried to summon indignation, modesty, anger—failing at every attempt. 

She couldn’t deny it. She remembered how he had felt against her, her gaze involuntarily shifting to the front of his pants. There was no shame in it, she told herself, as long as he wanted her too. Truly wanted _her_ , unlike that puerile Lieutenant.

The admission rose, erupting from her chest like a heated gush of mineral water, sent into the air by natural, irrefutable forces.

“Yes.”

It didn’t sound like her voice at all, ringing hollow and distant. Nothing made sense, least of all her vocal assent to his deliberate touch, his will.

“Yes,” he agreed, his left hand leaving hers, finding her waist, pulling her against him as he had before. The feel of him, the unyielding fabric of his clothing, the heat of his body woke her from her stupor. She knew this was ill-advised, but all she could think about was how his hands felt sure and intimidating on her bare skin and how good his lips would feel in the same places. Pryce’s head fell back, every muscle loosened save the constricted one in her chest. Heavy lidded, her eyes met his stare.

She was empowered by his touch; Thrawn had given in to this, to her. Her lips parted as she watched him, enjoyed his tactile assessment. She’d never felt so perfectly sexual, something designed with erotic purpose. The hand on her neck smoothed down her softness as if she already belonged to him. Thrawn’s palm turned up as he trailed the backs of his fingers along the outer curve of her breast, coming back towards her lower ribs, down the center line of her midriff. His left hand glided down from her waist to her hips, the pressure there uncomfortable and possessive, leaving sparks in its path.

Pryce sighed audibly, the sound embarrassing. His fingers contracted in response and she stiffened, the renewed tension forcing more discomfort into her position.

Thrawn’s eyes glittered a warning at her not to speak, but Pryce refused to be entirely passive. She compressed her lips, consenting to the silence, but brought her hands up, carefully, lightly touching the front of his uniform. She focused on the placement of her fingers, wondering what he was waiting for, wanting his hands to continue this exploration of her flesh. Each place he stroked seemed to ignite, to thrive and flare as the contrast between gentle drifts and harsh clutches fought to reconcile in her senses. She pressed herself closer to his chest, feeling the scratch of material against her nipples, the heat of his palm, gliding over her ass.

Her signals were hardly subtle. Thrawn lowered his other hand from her stomach to her cunt. His wrist reversed its direction, his entire palm swiping down and against the line of her. She was wet, eager, and moved her legs apart to give him better access. 

Her fingers sought to latch on to him, trying to find give in his tight tunic to twist in her grip. Pryce looked into his face, but Thrawn’s expression remained impassive, his lips barely there, the thinnest line. The heel of his hand pressed against the top of her slit, a cruel, unsatisfying push. Her clit throbbed, aching but too shielded from his touch.

She arced, one bare foot on tiptoe, to angle him for what she wanted. And blissfully, Thrawn slipped two fingers inside her. Pryce groaned, cursing their height difference and gripping his shoulders to keep him there. She hung on as Thrawn pressed deeper. 

She was ready, but he was still implacable, almost clinical in his violation as his eyes branded her, unblinking, analyzing her reactions.

“Thrawn—” she begged, finally, her hips canting towards him, trying to lift her neck enough for a kiss, to place her lips where they wanted to go. Her hands slid down to his hips, his belt—anxious for him to match her state of undress. She fumbled, almost losing her balance as his fingers left her empty. She could smell him again, that scent laced with ice and darkness that was so unlike anything else in the galaxy.

Pryce didn’t have time to reflect further; Thrawn gripped her biceps— leaving a streak of her own wetness against her skin—and spun her away from him. She faced the austere cabin wall as one firm hand left her arm to move to the middle of her back, shoving her forward. 

Pryce turned her neck to the right, seeing blue fingers still clamped around her arm through the damp curtain of her hair. Small dips in her skin, white outlines created by the strength of his grasp. She felt hypnotized, wondering how quickly the color would return to those bloodless spots when he let go.

Made all but sightless by his hold on her, Pryce was powerfully aware of sound. Her own breathing, alternating gasps and broken exhales, and Thrawn’s steady respiration providing another layer of life to the dead of the room’s silence. Then the unmistakable, welcome noise of fasteners coming undone. She tried to stand up straighter, turn, but his pressure between her shoulder blades stayed fixed, keeping her bent at forty-five degrees. Her thin hands flattened against the wall as Pryce tensed, hearing his breath closer now. The abrasion of his pants was gone, the uneven muscles of strong thighs pressing against her ass. 

All sensation was now limited to the harsh contraction in her stomach and the pulsing of need between her legs. Her commanding officer was going to fuck her, the idea creating a thrill that floated like a tendril of anticipation in her belly. She waited, breathless, arching her back, staring at the flex of her fingers.

He felt so smooth, hard; Pryce barely had time to register Thrawn’s presence, his cock pressed up against her cunt before he slammed inside. She screamed at the force even as she pushed back onto his length, lifted onto her toes as Thrawn easily reached her limits. His breathing had barely sped up.

Her hands fisted against the wall as he pulled completely out and crashed into her again. She groaned, reaching behind for him, wanting to feel his skin beneath her fingers. As he held to her depths, she managed to graze his hip, tracing the bone, the sinew and muscle as he moved. Thrawn took her wrist in his hand, stopping her exploration at his thigh. He bent her forearm into an awkward ‘V’, yanking her upright in a painful twist.

Pryce lurched forward without the additional support to brace her, now pressed almost flush with the wall. Thrawn continued to fuck her, his cock relentless and ever deeper. Was he _trying_ to hurt her? Pryce wondered, as the ache in her twisted arm became a sting. The next time his hips retreated, before he could slide back into her, she thrust a hard reverse into him, feet scrambling backwards, protesting her position. 

She wanted to face him. Kiss him. Claim him, as he was possessing her.

He grunted, saying something she couldn’t understand, but Pryce took it as a triumph—he had spoken. Thrawn wasn’t immune to this, whatever he was pretending. The thought was cut off as he released her wrist, balance returning as blood rushed back to her limb. Thrawn’s right arm then curled around her, looping under her breast to bracket her throat with his hand, pulling her tight against him. Her back was sweaty against the coarse weave of his uniform. The rectangular outline of his rank plate dug into her shoulder as she turned her head, looking at his profile. Thrawn avoided her eyes, his left hand back at her clit, long fingers probing, and she jerked in response. His cock was rooted in her again, but this time she was unable to do anything but react to his touch, nerves overloaded and breast squeezed painfully by the vise of his arm as he fucked her.

Pryce moaned as he drove harder, the sound wanton and loud in the small room, tinged with desperation. Thrawn’s cock was thick, and although she hadn’t seen it, she could feel something different about his anatomy. His entire length was lined or ridged—she couldn’t imagine the sight but the sensation was overpowering and exquisite. His thrusts stayed regular in their violence, while she was the opposite—repeatedly seizing on his cock, twitching from his fingers, somehow managing to take him deeper with every stutter of her hips.

 _“Ch’acacah?”_ he whispered into her ear, his breath unnaturally cold. She shivered and quaked against him, feeling her climax bloom, glimpsing its approaching strength and wondering if it would tear her to pieces. She couldn’t think, couldn’t answer, not even a word as she came with a cry, shuddering from the vehemence. 

Thrawn didn’t react, her shivering gradually subsiding as he stayed buried inside her. His expert fingers scraped her hypersensitive clit again, making her whimper and twitch around his cock. His tongue continued its oppressive monologue, susurrant syllables drifting from his lips like a feverish plague into the air. Pryce tried to turn to face him, but her commander responded with a merciless thrust, his cock driving her back into the wall. Whatever restraint he’d been guarding was tossed aside. His hands simply held her hips in place as he fucked her roughly, carelessly, without rhythm or surcease.

Finally Thrawn came—she felt his cock expand in her cunt, a final thrust to her depths before he rode the arc of movement out of her body. The heat of his come painted her ass, coating skin chafed by his assault, dripping down the backs of her thighs as he stepped away.

Pryce felt unseamed, no longer corporal or real—every part of her was molten and fluid. The molecules of air surrounding them were as bounded and sentient as this moment.

Weakly, she pushed herself away from the wall, turning and bending for the towel where it had fallen on the floor. The movement hurt, her muscles too tight, a dagger’s shadow between her legs. Pryce focused on wiping off the trails of semen on her lower back and ass. The dried streaks remained in crusted remnants against her skin, evidence. 

Thrawn hadn’t left. He hadn’t spoken. And she hadn’t looked at him. He was between her and the small closet, and so Pryce turned the clean side of the towel to her body and wrapped it again around her. It was meaningless now, but would act as a shield against whatever came next.

She steeled herself and turned to face him. His pants were back over his hips, belt already fastened. Thrawn looked disheveled, something she had never seen before—his tunic oddly twisted on his arms, its lines uneven. 

Thrawn hadn’t kissed her. The lack distressed her, but also stoked a simmering anger in her bones. He’d used her. He’d fucked her. And then acted like he was above it by denying her the intimacy— _en’cecot,_ her mind unhelpfully spouted—that he’d already offered her. Yes, that intimacy was through language and words, but he _had_ wanted this, and Pryce would make him admit it.

The fact that he hadn’t left was further proof, she told herself, meeting his eyes. The red ovals were flattened, compacted, and Pryce realized for the first time that Thrawn was breathing heavily. More audibly than when he’d fucked her…It was a drawn out, burdened sound, as if laden with grief or suffering, and she hated it. And hated herself for hating it, for caring about whatever was behind it and wondering if she was the source.

_“Csarcican’t nah ch’tra.”_

Thrawn’s face hardened, turned ugly and frozen as she offered her assurance. There was something that screamed violence and cruelty in the set of his jaw, the line of his mouth. For a moment, Pryce thought he would strike her, beat her for daring to use his language after her betrayal.

But he answered with a question, the word dripping foul from his lips.

_“Veo?”_

She had expected something vicious or accusing, not the simple interrogative which could mean either “why” or “how” or any number of queries. Would she truly stay? Could she? She had just promised him as much, but…was that even an option? 

Pryce opened her mouth, wanting to fix this, trying not to think about the toxicity of what had just happened but the potential of it. However Thrawn apparently thought better of his question, and shook his head briefly, taking one of the two steps required to reach the door.

“Wait,” she said, not even attempting the Cheunh equivalent. A small pursing of his lips told her that he’d noticed—it was a phrase she always had trouble with—and his reaction encouraged her. 

“Commander…” Not a good start; that was a reflex, and a bad one. 

_“Tocen,”_ he replied softly, his eyes burning cold and incarnadine as he watched her.

“I don’t –” Of course he knew she didn’t understand. Whatever he said, she was sure it was wicked and harmful and insulting, and she probably deserved it, but that didn’t change the fact that she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, even if the reverse was clearly his goal this evening.

“You used _‘dashe,’_ ” she accused him. “ _You_ used it. I didn’t understand the mistake. At first. And…you knew, and you used it anyway.” He was watching her, some unnamable emotion flickering across his face. He wasn’t facing the door anymore.

“I used it because you understood it,” Thrawn said finally. “You knew the meaning. The—” He paused, his aura suddenly weary. “The subtlety was of no consequence to a beginner.”

She moved between him and the exit, still clutching the ends of the soiled and damp towel in one hand. 

“It was of consequence to you,” she replied.

Thrawn said nothing, apparently debating a lie and deciding silence was preferable.

“Deepest consequence,” Pryce insisted. 

She was close to trembling, feeling instability threaten her balance and grip. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to erase the last twelve hours and make every decision over again. Something slithering in the back of her mind heartlessly doubted she was capable of making them differently.

“I misjudged you.” 

The three words held finality, condemnation for her imperfections. 

But he wasn’t denying it—he _had_ used that term of endearment on purpose, because she had meant something to him. Had.

Pryce shook her head, feeling Thrawn slip further away, the emotional distance between them now a gaping chasm. But she had no defense. He was right. He had trusted her, given her something precious and secret, and she had discarded it in favor of her vaulting ambition.

“Stay.”

Thrawn let out a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. 

“Now _you_ misjudge _me,_ Ensign Pryce.” His voice sounded damaged, his throat raw.

“So why fuck me?” she asked, the words sounding less fierce than she’d intended. _“Veo?”_

Thrawn shrugged, an odd gesture, and one which Pryce wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him make. Yet the movement confirmed the artifice she’d only guessed at before. She let the towel fall again. He stood stiffly, crossing his arms like a barrier between them. She knew why…she felt certain of the reason. And she was sure Thrawn knew it too.

 _“Dashe…”_ She didn’t know exactly what she expected from him, but she wanted him to admit his desire, his weakness for her. Thrawn didn’t move, watching her warily, mistrusting. _“Csei ‘veo’…csei csapun.”_ She reached for him, sliding a hand over the top of his sleeved forearm. Thrawn uncrossed his arms, swatting her away.

“You never learned the word for ‘loyalty,’” he said coldly. 

“You never taught it to me,” she retorted, eyes blazing. “I _told_ you I wouldn’t go. I’ll cancel it, refuse the transfer.” She hated how desperate she sounded, wondering if she even believed a word she was saying. Pryce saw the same doubt in Thrawn’s eyes and cursed him and herself for it. 

“I no longer have need of your services, Ensign.” The words shocked her and Pryce felt nausea strike her like an arrow to the guts. “As you have so helpfully pointed out, my Basic is _almost_ perfect.”

He tried to step past her and Pryce didn’t move, no longer blocking him on purpose but rooted to the spot by his indifference. Thrawn pushed her easily to the side with one hand and walked out the door without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill, here's the Cheunh in order of appearance. Please try not to peek until you've finished the chapter--there be spoilers here.
> 
> Tisbuntra = Forgive me.  
> Vitcehah = Stop  
> Tras = Mine  
> Rcisah rob? = Understand?  
> Rcisah rob = Understood.  
> Vatt’ah nen?=Help us?  
> Hsicoti = Congratulations  
> Ravri’ihah ten? = Did you fuck him?  
> Dah rsah = You know  
> Veo ch’epasahn = What do you want  
> Taskebah = Traitor  
> Veo cart to tisut sir … = What's the word for...  
> Retan’cehah = Silence/Hush  
> Ch’acacah? = You like?  
> En’cecot = Intimacy  
> Csarcican’t nah ch’tra = I won't go  
> Veo? = general interrogative (why/how/what/etc)  
> Tocen = whore  
> Dashe = Yours  
> Csei ‘veo’= That is why  
> Csei csapun = That is the reason


	6. Nuance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you don't mind the cost, Pryce learns, you can make powerful allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [sticks_and_scars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sticks_and_scars/pseuds/sticks_and_scars) for the beta, to the Thryce Discord for egging me on, and especially to YOU for reading the story this far. <3

It hurt worse than she could have imagined. Pryce could barely wait until the door closed after him to sink onto her bed, weak and confused. Her groin throbbed, unhappy with her seated position. Nausea remained, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, bending in half, feeling Thrawn’s rejection like something diseased that had settled in her guts.

He’d refused her invitation to stay, as well as her offer to do the same. 

The light, untethered feeling she’d felt just minutes ago turned leaden and offensive in her chest. She knew Thrawn wanted her—she’d never felt so certain of it. The evidence was dried on her skin. The Chiss commander—staid and circumspect—had lost control, abandoned restraint, and taken what he’d wanted. And what he’d wanted was what she had wanted too, even if it wasn’t the manner she would have chosen. Pryce still felt she’d received as much as had been taken from her. There was undeniable satisfaction in knowing _she_ had pushed him over that edge.

But she’d struck at his heart and everything Thrawn estimated highly—loyalty, trust, honor. They were lofty enough as concepts, particularly in military culture, but it didn’t take much for reality to dispute their usefulness in practice. Thrawn should have respected her for her practicality, for her logic in doing what made the most sense strategically for herself and her future. But no…

He took it personally.

Pryce reran their final conversation in her memory. Was there something she could have done differently? Thrawn had stayed after, apparently willing to discuss something, but her argument hadn’t satisfied—her words hadn’t been enough to keep him, to assuage whatever fears or passions infected his ability to be honest.

Thrawn had always seemed a paragon of rationality, and tonight, nothing he’d done had made sense. Starting with coming to her cabin…

With Thrawn absent, Pryce felt some clarity return. She glanced at the door, straightening her spine as she sat. The mattress felt wooden against her legs. The air from the room swirled contaminated and bitter in her lungs. 

Commander Thrawn had been upset and angry, over a missed lesson, over her transfer, and even… jealous. Hurt. The words he’d thrown at her, his accusation… He cared about her. He had to. 

She remembered his question earlier, the one she hadn’t quite understood entirely…

_“Sir dashe push…sir tras push…csarcican’t tsurcecoecen’i?”_

He’d used _dashe_ that time too. She still didn’t know what that verb was, but Pryce set her jaw, considering. How far _would_ she go in service of her career? The answer was already exposed, lying in plain sight, well-lit by iniquity. 

_Vatt’aco sir nen._

Her previous naïve assessment echoed in her brain. Despite her promise to elevate them both, she’d jumped at the first chance to leave him, escape into the ranks of the back-stabbing Imperial elite. The first person plural should have always been a first person singular, something Thrawn obviously had intuited in his accurate, critical appraisal of her motivations. 

It grated. Yet when Vice Admiral Gredge had laid it out this afternoon, the proper course had seemed deceptively obvious. It was only now she could see her choice beset by malice more than ambition, accompanied by regret rather than true aspiration.

She couldn’t decide if she despised Thrawn for not understanding or thrilled at his unspoken distress. She could accept blame, but this was his fault as well. 

Damn him for trusting her.

Pryce stood, planning to return to the sanisteam. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting on the bed. The ache between her legs reasserted itself, and she twisted to look at her hips—the bruises there. Thrawn’s desire for her may be unexpressed in the traditional sense, but she nonetheless had the proof—the discolored souvenirs left by his hands, the patches of dried semen smeared along her skin. Her fingertips slid down her lower back, firm over her ass, tracing the lines left by his orgasm, liking the roughness staining the softness of her flesh and muscle.

She turned back to the bed, pulled down the sheets. She no longer wanted to wash—she wanted to keep these remnants of him with her, on her, as long as she could. Tomorrow she had to leave the _Thunder Wasp._ The transfer was immediate. And although she’d said she would stay, he had clearly not wished it. The memory of his stoic face, his casual dismissal, made her want to howl in frustration.

If Thrawn didn’t care enough to fight for her, to try to defy Gredge, it was futile.

Or was it? True, Thrawn didn’t have the rank or contacts to countermand a Vice Admiral, not unless he wished to personally involve the Emperor. But…a Grand Moff would be sufficient. And Pryce was on good terms with Tarkin. Not friendly, exactly, but in their brief encounters, he had insinuated he was a man who welcomed favors. And remembered them.

She crawled into bed, wide awake. Maybe she couldn’t get out of the transfer. She was still uncertain as to what she truly wanted. What _did_ she want? What was she doing?

Pryce was afraid to know herself.

Memory struck as she turned off the light. It sensed weakness, hacking ruthlessly at her defenses. How he’d touched her, how he’d claimed her with his body, hands and cock. The white halos of his fingertips on her flesh, the pressure of his palm on her back, his grip on her throat, the heat of his flesh entering hers, the sound of his breathing, like a cold lament in her ears. He’d fucked her savagely, desperately, and it had been only half of what she wanted.

She wanted all of him, everything he’d held back. Was he afraid she would have tasted something hidden in a kiss? A pledge or surrender on his lips? A bond or devotion on his tongue? Why else deny them that? 

Pryce remembered how Thrawn had placed her hands on his shoulders in their makeshift classroom. That firm, resolute motion, the press of their bodies together. That moment had held more promise than what they’d done tonight.

That was what she wanted. For him to look at her with warm indulgence and heated intensity, placing himself in her embrace, stepping into her arms. Not the glacial scorn of burning eyes as cruel fingers explored her naked body.

Because she’d offended him. Because she was no longer worthy.

Pryce squeezed her eyelids shut, her lungs deflating. He was wrong.

Thrawn was wrong about her, just like those bastards on the _Scourge._ Why else had he assumed she’d fuck Palas to get what she wanted? They all thought they knew her, but her priorities didn’t have to be career-focused— they just had to be Pryce-focused. 

And right now her focus was on Commander Thrawn. She had lost something without knowing how badly she wanted it:

Him.

Pryce rolled onto her side, looping her arms around the pillow and ignoring the slight ache on her hip where it pressed into the mattress. She _wanted_ him. 

She had understood of course, that she was attracted to him. Her reactions to her superior officer had been inappropriate for longer than she’d cared to consider. But now…now that she knew he wanted her too...

She felt worn and sick at heart. It was too late, and everything hurt. Maybe she couldn’t fix things, and maybe Thrawn didn’t want her to stay, but she could still try to help. She could do that much. 

Pryce’s blue eyes lingered on the bedside chrono. Tarkin was notoriously early to his office. She wasn’t sure he was even on-planet, but if he was, she would have just over four hours of sleep before she could go and explain what she wanted—what Thrawn deserved. 

~~

She woke up before the alarm went off. Pryce once again decided not to shower, dressing quickly. Hysteria was climbing up from deep inside her, and she stifled it with effort. The caf tasted more acrid than usual, but she gulped it down, heading towards the turbolift, feeling aches in places she’d never felt them before.

It was a good feeling.

She hadn’t wanted to flaunt her transfer orders to get off the ship, but fortunately she didn’t need to. The status she enjoyed as Thrawn’s personal aide sometimes helped her avoid questions, and this was one of those times. The dawn sentry had only asked her destination and nodded once when she said Imperial High Command, apparently assuming she had authorization and cause. The second, definitely, the first, not remotely.

In a hurry, Pryce pulled her cloak around her shoulders and hired a speeder to get as quickly as possible to her destination. An extravagance but well worth it. She made her way to Tarkin’s office, slipping down each brightly lit corridor with as much authority as she could muster. There was security all over the place, but she’d been here enough times to know how to escape casual scrutiny.

Luck was with her. Just as she approached his corner office, the man himself turned down the hallway. He looked pinched and stern as usual, his uniform impeccable, his gaunt face betraying no emotion as he drew closer.

“Grand Moff Tarkin, good morning,” Pryce greeted him. Her voice was smooth and pleasant, her diplomatic experience serving her well.

“Good morning, Ensign Pryce,” he said, opening the outer door and pausing as if expecting her to continue on her way. When she smiled carefully at him, his eyes narrowed. “Is there something you need, Ensign? A message to deliver?”

Honesty seemed to be her best weapon, Pryce decided, and shook her head, holding the door herself and making it clear she intended to join Tarkin on the other side.

“Yes, and yes,” she replied. “A moment of your time, if it’s not too much trouble.”

He didn’t answer, but walked inside the antechamber that made up the outer office. The secretary was not in yet, but a caf machine was already bubbling its enticing aromas into the air from some hidden kitchen. Pryce followed at Tarkin’s heels, hoping she wasn’t being too pushy.

Inside the impressive office, the Grand Moff sat down behind his curved desk, but did not invite her into a chair. Pryce stood at parade rest, face carefully blank, trying to compose her words for maximum efficiency.

“I’m a busy man, Ensign. What news is so important that Commander Thrawn sends his interpreter to me before dawn?”

His long pale fingers tapped impatiently on the desk’s polished surface.

“Sir, Commander Thrawn did not send me. But it does pertain to him. If I may explain?” 

With a flick of his wrist, Tarkin indicated the chair across from him, and Pryce sat, relieved at the glimmer of undisguised curiosity she could read in the Grand Moff’s eyes. He was intrigued, and he was listening. 

It didn’t take her long, perhaps four minutes. Pryce explained in the plainest terms how Thrawn had been targeted by powerful forces, a fact of which Tarkin clearly was already aware, having sat on his court-martial panel. The xenophobia surrounding the alien, Pryce explained, had reached a fever pitch of jealousy and damaging political vendettas, of which she was the latest casualty. 

Tarkin templed his fingers and leaned forward as she lied blithely about Vice Admiral Gredge and Lieutenant Palas—how they had used her detail to Thrawn to turn other Naval commanders against him. She explained how the _Thunder Wasp_ had been languishing in the repair docks due to its commander’s origins, its crew targeted by spies and saboteurs seeking to make Thrawn look incompetent. 

When she had finished, Pryce held her breath, hoping that Tarkin believed her and, more importantly, cared.

There were more than a few beats of silence as the Grand Moff considered, and she had to let out the air she’d been keeping in her lungs. But the question he finally asked was not one she had anticipated.

“Commander Thrawn did not send you. Therefore you are guilty of insubordination and likely in violation of liberty policy, are you not, Ensign Pryce?”

His bony fingers folded, and although she should sense a trap, Pryce didn’t feel animosity coming from the Grand Moff. It was a different, more careful conversation than she’d had yesterday with the Vice Admiral. Tarkin was a man that was more confident of his power and less concerned with protocol.

Excuses came to her lips, but Pryce bit them back. She had been asked a question. If he threw her in the brig, it would jeopardize or delay her transfer, in any event.

“Yes, Grand Moff Tarkin. I am guilty of both.”

He paused as if expecting her to continue, but she did not. Tarkin spoke again, his voice mild in the stale air of the office.

“What, may I ask, inspires such risks?”

The question again took her by surprise, and Pryce rolled her lips between her teeth, trying to formulate a response.

Tarkin noticed the hesitation and smiled carefully.

“ _Who,_ then, perhaps is the better question, but I suppose we both know the answer to that.” He leaned back in his chair, small eyes measuring her. Pryce did her best to stay calm. “All Commander Thrawn’s subordinates seem to display remarkable loyalty, Ensign, but you are the first, I believe, to make a plea on his behalf.”

The term annoyed her, and Pryce responded before she could help herself.

“A plea, sir?”

“Yes.” Tarkin’s eyes glittered. “A plea. You may not have used that particular word but you did indeed articulate that exact issue. Do not play me for a fool, Ensign.” He tilted his head, the pointed chin like a knife in her direction. “Anyone who has been paying attention knows Commander Thrawn owes an enormous debt—perhaps even his career—to his politically savvy aide-de-camp. Your presence here only underscores that assessment.” 

He jabbed a finger towards her. “You claim your commander is under siege by treasonous forces—” He saw her reaction to the adjective and raised an eyebrow. “Any attempt to undermine an officer of the Empire is treason, Ensign, surely you know the accusation you levy—”

Pryce wanted to interrupt, wondering what exactly she’d begun with this discussion. It hadn’t been her intention to get that stupid yet cute lieutenant executed, after all. But Tarkin continued.

“And yet as part of the conspiracy against him, you are to be _promoted,_ and transferred to a position of prestige and responsibility—one I would argue to which you are well-suited—as a _punishment?_ ” He shook his head. “It would seem to any logical observer that you are complicit in this conspiracy, Ensign. In this treason.”

Pryce was shocked, knowing she had to tread extremely carefully. She wasn’t certain what Tarkin was getting at, but she knew these waters were dangerous. 

He was telling her that she’d handed him a way to ruin her. But he didn’t need a reason—if a Grand Moff wanted someone to go away, he made them disappear. However, Tarkin had inserted a compliment into his camouflaged threat—he believed her well-suited to higher rank and loftier position. She was an ally, and he knew it. Pryce ignored the torrent of blood pummeling her veins, meeting his challenging look.

“I may seem an accomplice,” she began, “but I assure you I only wish to serve the Empire.” 

Tarkin waited, obviously expecting more. She couldn’t afford to stall, already surprised at the amount of time he’d allowed her.

“Commander Thrawn is a brilliant tactician,” she continued, knowing once she’d started down this path she had to be convincing. The light in Tarkin’s glassy eyes told her she was on the right track. 

“You have borne witness to this yourself, Grand Moff, presiding over his court-martial. Commander Thrawn’s instincts and strategies are atypical, but he gets results. His campaigns against Nightswan have repeatedly proven his worth to the Empire in combating rebel scum and terrorists.” 

She clasped her palms together, sweaty in her lap. “Success such as his should be rewarded, yet instead he’s attacked by petty inferiors who think only of their own status rather than the good of the Imperial Navy or glory of the Empire.” Pryce swallowed, her mouth dry. 

“Commander Thrawn respects and trusts your judgement, which is why I thought to explain the situation. Only you are in a position to help him.” She amended. “To help us.”

Tarkin stood up from the desk, but waved her back to her seat as she began to rise. He walked to the window behind his high-backed chair, looking out over the city that was just starting to show the grey light of morning.

“Name what you are asking, Ensign.”

Pryce blinked, staring at Tarkin’s narrow, angular back. What was she asking? This was the moment where she had to be certain, but she had to appeal to Tarkin’s sense of personal strength and power to do it.

“I ask you to use your influence, Grand Moff, to demonstrate that the Empire values performance and victory above all. To deny these—” she paused, but only for a moment, “—treasonous actors their desired sabotage.”

It wasn’t good enough. He wanted her to be more specific.

“How do you propose I do so, Ensign Pryce? Arrest them in their bunks? Promote Thrawn to Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy, over all of them?” He turned to her, his lips twisted in a grimace that Pryce decided was as close to a smile as Tarkin ever got.

She smiled back, slowly. “Grand Moff, I have little doubt that Commander Thrawn is destined to one day be among the ranks of your Grand Admirals. Just as I have no doubt that you will make an excellent Grand Vizier.” His smile widened, amused at her flattery more than susceptible to it, she was certain. “I defer to your wisdom, but agree that some sort of promotion for Commander Thrawn would send a strong message of highest level support. Your personal patronage is a powerful weapon against these forces that conspire against him.”

Tarkin waved a hand dismissively. “Your Commander has the patronage of the Emperor himself, Ensign, something of which you and I are well aware, and something which makes it clear that he himself does not see the same threat that you do…” He sat back down in the chair, thinking.

“Commander Thrawn doesn’t need his junior officers to lobby for him, does he?” His look said he'd dissected her motives. Effortlessly.

Tarkin’s eyes bore into her, something calculating and full of menace behind them. Pryce saw her failure in the look. Tarkin was no fool, and hadn’t maintained his position by being easily manipulated. She’d made a mistake. She only hoped it was a recoverable one.

“I apologize, then, for wasting your time, Grand Moff.” She stood up.

“Sit down, Pryce.”

She did, confused, and very aware he’d dropped her rank. There was something in his voice…

“You are imprecise and obdurate,” Tarkin continued, “but no matter.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she apologized again, horrified, but Tarkin didn’t appear to care or notice. He pulled a datapad to his fingers and typed in a few things, then looked up at her.

“Do you or do you not wish to be transferred to the _Scourge_?”

There it was. He’d gotten to the heart of the matter, easily discerned it was ultimately about her and not Thrawn. Pryce swallowed, feeling trapped. Tarkin had said he felt it was a good fit for her, hadn’t he? To contradict him…

“I serve the Empire, sir, wherever you feel I am best suited.”

That twisted smile returned, but it was tinged with impatience this time.

“Now you _are_ wasting my time, Pryce. You came here to ask me to countermand an order, did you not?” 

She nodded, speechless.

“Your commanding officer did not care to countermand this order, did he not?” 

She shook her head, although they both knew Thrawn had no authority to do so, that wasn’t Tarkin’s point. 

“So _ask_ me to do so, as was your intention upon setting foot in my office this morning.” The lines on his wrinkled face deepened, his eyes seemed to sink further into their sockets, flashing an ultimatum. “And know it places you considerably in my debt.”

Pryce didn’t hesitate. 

“I ask you to countermand the transfer order, Grand Moff Tarkin.”

His smile broadened, and Tarkin tapped more at his datapad.

“Anything else?” The voice was seductively indulgent, but she _did_ sense a trap this time. Pryce straightened her shoulders. She could hardly ask him to do anything for Thrawn now, but…

 _Vatt’aco sir nen._ The words echoed in her brain. Helpful for _both_ of them.

“Commander Thrawn—” 

“I will handle it,” Tarkin cut her off. “Dismissed.”

She stood and saluted him. “Thank you sir. I am in your debt.”

Just before she reached the door, Tarkin cleared his throat and she turned back to him, at attention.

“Pryce. Take care not to let your loyalty to Thrawn interfere with loyalty to _your_ patron.” His eyes shone, blackened and infernal. “Our goals may not always align.”

“Yes, Grand Moff, of course. Thank you sir.” She bowed slightly. “I look forward to being of service to you.” 

His smile, secretive and satisfied, stayed in her memory the entire way back to the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill (and you probably know the Cheunh at this point--nothing new in this chapter!). In order of appearance:
> 
> “Sir dashe push…sir tras push…csarcican’t tsurcecoecen’i?”=  
> "For your career...for my career...would you prostitute yourself?"
> 
> Dashe=yours (intimate form)
> 
> Vatt’aco sir nen=Helpful for us


	7. Genitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mad in pursuit and in possession so;_   
>  _Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;_   
>  _A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;_   
>  _Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream._   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to [sticks_and_scars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sticks_and_scars/pseuds/sticks_and_scars) for the beta. 
> 
> I am super grateful to everyone who read and enjoyed this fic (my longest ever) and encouraged my language kink. So if you are reading this, consider this chapter dedicated to YOU.

The _Thunder Wasp_ looked welcoming as she crossed the ship’s entry ramp. It was just after sunrise, and the stormtrooper who had been standing watch as she left was still on shift. The sound of her feet in the corridor resonated with a dry echo, and Pryce made her way to the mess. She was ravenous.

An hour later, she headed to the bridge, looking for Thrawn, but her comm sounded before she arrived. It was a scrambled signal she didn’t recognize.

“Pryce,” she connected.

There was a lapse, static humming, and then Rees’ voice, clear, low, and agitated. Unlike she’d ever heard.

“What happened?! Gredge is livid. It wasn’t easy for him to pull your transfer in the first place, Arihnda.”

She grit her teeth, wondering exactly what Tarkin had set in motion. Best to play ignorant, then, to keep Rees and his boss on her side. It wasn’t too difficult, since she didn’t know the details of Tarkin’s play. 

Pryce injected surprise into her voice, forcing the register higher than usual.

“What are you talking about Rees? I just finished packing up my quarters. The shuttle is coming—”

Another beat, but he seemed to believe her. “You don’t know? Your transfer is...off. Must be something your commander did.”

“That’s impossible,” she protested, voice strained, “he can’t do that, he doesn’t have the clearance. You can still push it through! The Vice Admiral said—”

“I know,” Rees spoke rapidly now, as if pressed for time. “But you’ve got new orders, directly from High Command. Nothing we can do.” His voice seemed to soften slightly. “Sorry, Ensign, but I already spoke with the Vice Admiral and well…”

They weren’t going to fight for her—she wasn’t worth it. Pryce was annoyed, even though this _was_ what she wanted and intended. The second commander in as many days that just abandoned her to the caprices of whomever signed the datasheets. It was insulting, really, she thought, forgetting what was behind it in her irritation.

“I understand,” she said coldly. “Please give my regards to the Vice Admiral and thank him regardless.” She closed the comm, then smiled into the air. Done. Whatever had happened, it was done.

Instead of the bridge, then, to her cabin. She had to see the orders for herself, to know what to tell Thrawn. She spun in that direction, when her comm buzzed again.

“Ensign Pryce, please report to the command center immediately.”

It was the shift supervisor, and the summons told her nothing. She stopped in a fresher and smoothed down her hair, checked her uniform. She looked tired, but that was to be expected. Sleep was of minor importance as of late. Time was better spent studying Cheunh, she reflected, the nausea of earlier returning, a pang that spread from her stomach to her chest. Would she ever use it again?

Lt Commander Osgoode was waiting, stiff and serious, hands clasped at his back when she arrived in the center. Thrawn was nowhere to be seen. This was strange, Pryce thought, saluting.

“At ease,” Osgoode snapped, his voice tight and stressed. 

“Sir,” she replied, waiting. She didn’t wait long. Osgoode slid an illuminated datapad across the table towards her.

_COMMISSIONED ASSET DEPLOYMENT ORDERS_  
_PRYCE, Arihnda, Ens. Thunder Wasp, Special Attachée_  
_To proceed on deployment as shown._  
_Assigned to: Commodore Mitth’raw’nuruodo, Personal Attachée_  
_Effective Date: Immediate_  
_Duration: Permanent/Indefinite_  
_Associated Action: Promotion upon receipt: Lieutenant Commander_

She read the words at least six times, each time stunned by the sheer brilliance and nerve of Grand Moff Tarkin. In the space of a few lines, he’d promoted her—leaping several ranks—, promoted Thrawn, and instead of assigning her to a ship, as was standard Navy protocol, assigned her to an _individual._ Pryce was certain that was a first—even the highest ranked among the brass, able to personally select their XOs, did not have them officially detailed. This was—

Osgoode cleared his throat.

“Any questions, Commander?”

It took a moment to realize he was addressing her. Pryce shook her head reflexively, but then reconsidered. Her voice stayed flat, an attempt to camouflage her shock.

“Has…Commodore Thrawn been informed?”

The man across from her looked perplexed, down at the datapad, then back to meet her gaze.

“Commodore Thrawn left the ship early this morning and we have been unable to reach him on his comm. His promotion ceremony is scheduled at the High Command for this afternoon.” Osgoode looked at her questioningly, but stopped there.

“I will attend, of course,” she answered what remained unasked. 

“Ens—Commander, excuse me,” Osgoode said, a slight smile this time. Pryce was pleased he didn’t seem to begrudge her this good fortune, at least. “It would be useful if you could inform the Commodore regarding this afternoon’s events?”

She nodded, having no idea how Osgoode expected her to have luck locating Thrawn where they had failed. 

“A copy of his orders?

He shook his head. “They’re classified, no one has seen them yet.”

“So—”

“We received yours an hour ago. And invitations for you and Commander Thrawn from High Command just arrived. Connected the dots.”

“Understood. Thank you Commander Osgoode. I’ll find him.”

~~

She didn’t really expect Thrawn to answer his comm, but it was still aggravating when he didn’t. Pryce headed back to her room and quickly used the fresher, changing into a clean tunic, grinning in the mirror at the rank plate that would soon be supplemented by additional blocks. She’d thought she was throwing away her career to stay with Thrawn, but this—this was beyond anything she’d dreamed. A Lieutenant Commander on permanent assignment at his side. Pryce felt giddy, ignoring any qualms that threatened. Thrawn could not possibly dispute her continued presence.

After all, he _wanted_ her, and once he’d realized what she’d done, to help them both, they could continue as they were. Better, even.

She smiled again, picking up her datapad. There was a change to her schedule. She hadn’t seen it before, having forgotten to check when she’d returned to the cabin.

_0700_

She’d missed it. Missed him. Pryce fumbled for her comm, tried him again. And again. She needed to explain. No response. 

She left no messages, the taste of fear sour on her tongue.

What was Thrawn doing? Thinking? Why had he summoned her this morning after completely dismissing her last night? She was panicked, her heart speeding up, her skin sere and brittle. Where … where would he have gone? Coruscant was huge, and if he missed this opportunity—

Her comm vibrated.

“Pryce.”

“Ensign.”

She collapsed onto the bed, relieved, but needed to tell him what was most important before he changed his mind or closed the comm. 

“You have to get to High Command by 1330 this afternoon. You’ve been promoted.”

“Have I?”

Thrawn didn’t sound surprised. Or concerned. Pryce felt confusion and alarm start to build in her chest, fought it down. She had to be rational.

“Yes. Tarkin is going to pin you himself.”

“An honor, to be sure,” Thrawn said his voice crackling slightly over the comm. He fell silent, still there.

“Sir? Might we discuss—”

He interrupted her, something Thrawn rarely did, which therefore always made it feel like a criticism.

“ _K’ebatas._ ”

The word stopped her mid-thought. Cheunh. He was speaking to her in Cheunh. But she didn’t know that word. What to respond? How to explain everything she wanted to say to him in that overcomplicated, difficult-to-pronounce language? She hadn’t planned for this, had thought he’d deny her this, as he had denied her last night.

“ _Tra roncan’i._ ” She didn’t know how else to tell him, other than to say she was staying. Thrawn was silent. “ _Bah dash._ ” With you.

“ _K’ebatas,_ ” he said again, softer. It sounded like a promise. Or pardon.

“ _K’ebatas,_ ” she echoed, uncomprehending, her typical reaction to new vocabulary. She remembered that night, thinking how repeating something didn’t magically translate it in her brain, but this time… 

“ _Ukwethembeka?_ ” She guessed, offering the Sy Bisti equivalent to him over the comm, holding her breath.

“ _Mar,_ ” came the response, and Pryce couldn’t name the primary feeling overwhelming her, but it was mingled with relief and pride. She didn’t need to explain. Whatever happened, whether or not he still faulted her, he was allowing her this—a verbal path back to him.

“ _Hsr’ah csan’vun’t?_ ” Should they meet? Her pronunciation was definitely off, but she was certain Thrawn would understand. She had so much more to tell him, and this disembodied communication wasn’t what she wanted at all.

Thrawn didn’t pause, as if he’d been expecting the question. “The North entrance of High Command at 1315, Ensign.” Then a small pause. “I imagine your presence is expected?”

“Yes…Commodore.” Might as well give him a preview, let him know what to expect. “…And I’m no longer an Ensign.”

“I should think not,” he replied, waiting.

“Lieutenant Commander,” she said, feeling ridiculous at how it sounded, to announce it to him.

“ _Ch’abeiuh,_ Lieutenant Commander Pryce.”

He disconnected before she could return the standard farewell, and Pryce looked at the comm in her hand, incredulous. 

~~

The next few hours were hectic. A transport company came to the dock to pick up her things to transfer to the _Scourge,_ resulting in much confusion and consternation about the _Thunder Wasp_. Rather than attempt to explain, Pryce just insisted it was a stupid mistake, somebody’s wires got crossed in the administrative division. An hour later, all was resolved. She thought the XO looked a little suspiciously at her, but accepted her explanation.

When she returned to the High Command for Thrawn’s promotion ceremony, she was surprised to see Tarkin at the entrance, already in conversation with her boss. The Grand Moff nodded with a thin smile at her arrival; Thrawn did not offer more than a glance. Both men then ignored her, continuing their discussion as she followed behind to the office where she’d made her bargain that morning.

The “ceremony” lasted no more than a few minutes, but the real surprise came at the end. 

Tarkin announced the newly-elevated Commodore Thrawn would be given command of the Star Destroyer _Chimaera_ —an I-Class, just like the _Scourge._ Then, while Pryce was still reeling from the news, the Grand Moff turned to her, his cheeks hollow but his color high. He was definitely enjoying this, but exactly why she was uncertain.

“Commander Pryce,” he looked pointedly at the left side of her tunic. “I see your uniform does not correctly reflect your well-deserved promotion.” Pryce opened her mouth to apologize, but shut it again as Tarkin lifted one bony hand, the insignia for Lieutenant Commander resting against his pale palm.

“Thank you, Grand Moff,” she could think of nothing else to say, but Tarkin turned to Thrawn then, standing just behind at his elbow.

“Commodore,” he handed the rectangle over to Thrawn, “ _your_ attachée…If there are no objections?” His head tilted briefly in her direction.

Tarkin had surrendered her rank to Thrawn to pin. Pryce felt her heart skip a beat, wondering what was behind it. There was too much to parse—Tarkin suspecting at some aspect of their relationship, perhaps, or a tacit criticism of her commander for his failure to argue against her transfer? Maybe a reminder that she had yet to earn Tarkin’s personal favor, despite his patronage, by refusing to pin her himself? 

In any case, as the ranking officer, normally the Grand Moff would be the default, diplomatic choice. His cloudy blue eyes turned to Pryce just as Thrawn stepped in front of her, blocking Tarkin’s view. Her heart beat louder at his proximity, her entire body struck by one banded ache at the sight of him.

“None,” she replied quickly. “Thank you, Commodore,” she addressed Thrawn as he reached forward and those long, elegant fingers smoothed over her breast, gently, lifting the fabric just enough to attach the additional squares to her plate. She forced her eyes to stay straight ahead, too aware of his touch, every nerve sharp and delicate.

“Congratulations, Commander,” Thrawn said, his face unreadable as usual, but with a warmth in his tone that she hadn’t anticipated.

“Thank you sir,” she answered, seeing Tarkin’s smug and knowing look over Thrawn’s square shoulder. He had them both in his pocket now.

After the ceremony, Tarkin melted away while Thrawn was corralled by a team of logistics and operational officers, eager to discuss his new command. As his aide, Pryce remained with him for the meetings and pull-asides, the briefings and shoulder-clapping.

The final briefing was regarding the crew of the _Chimaera,_ a presentation Thrawn had requested earlier in the afternoon. The first officer, a woman named Faro, had been called to the High Command and was going over a list of staffing requirements. Pryce noticed with pride how Thrawn handled the information overload. He asked good questions. He had obviously detected apprehension and skepticism in Faro’s demeanor, and done an excellent job, to Pryce’s mind, of allaying the woman’s concerns. Thrawn cared about his team as much as his ship—that was the message his new XO could take back to the ISD _Chimaera._

It was late when Faro left, and Thrawn and Pryce sat silent in the conference room at High Command, alone for the first time all day.  


Neither said a word as the shadows darkened, the transparisteel windows exposing the city’s transit from dusk to night. Speechlessness had become a competition, to see who would break first, who would find the silence most oppressive. Pryce was extremely willing to lose, if only she knew what to say.

“You went to Tarkin.”

It was so dark now all Pryce saw were the blooded amber glow of his eyes, disembodied at the head of the table. She could tell nothing from the tone, only that he was no longer consumed by blistering rage.

“Yes.”

“You asked him for this.”

That wasn’t accurate. She hadn’t asked him for this. She’d asked him to use Thrawn as an example, to demonstrate his worth to the Empire. How to explain without angering him?

“I asked him to show our enemies your value,” she answered.

“And in return?” His eyes thinned in the darkness, becoming lines of fire, ready to condemn or accuse.

“ _K’ebatas._ ” Loyalty. That is what Tarkin had asked of her. To place him over Thrawn. She wouldn’t go further, she didn’t have to. Thrawn could guess exactly how steep a price she’d promised.

Thrawn stood up as if the admission was a signal, Pryce following suit.

“Apologies if we do not celebrate this evening, Commander,” he remarked, walking to the door, “much work still awaits us.”

Pryce knew she shouldn’t read too much into it, but he was using the first person plural. Thrawn was including her in his words, his plans. The pronoun had revealed his mind. 

She had hoped he’d understood, and although he had no way of knowing the sacrifice she had been prepared to make—indeed, it seemed to have been a perfectly executed plan from the beginning—he had accepted her permanent role at his side.

In the turbolift, smelling him, feeling the heat from his body so close to her, Pryce swallowed, forcing boldness where she felt none. They were right next to the hotel complex…the officer’s club where he’d taken her what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Not even a drink, sir?”

He looked down at her, considering. She took in the flex of his jaw, the pulse in his temple. Those lambent eyes glowed dangerous, but his mouth stayed set, uncertain. She was once again seized with the urge to kiss him, forcing herself to stand straighter.

“ _In’a cssen’v,_ ” he replied, the clipped tone conceding nothing, although the words certainly had. She had learned the word for 'drink,' and Pryce could count in Cheunh. Numbers were easy. 

One drink. One would have to be enough. 

~~

This time Thrawn sat with his back to the room, although they settled into the same corner booth as before. It was darker than she recalled, and the club was designed for discretion, but Pryce had little doubt that Chiss eyes would be visible to anyone paying too much attention. 

The new commander of the _Chimaera_ was being careful.

He ordered his usual. Pryce decided to avoid the wine this time, opting for a glass of spiced pulkay. They sat wordlessly as the droid departed to take care of their drinks.

The atmosphere was lit only by tension, the last twenty-four hours’ events too monumental to ignore. It stemmed from her folly—Pryce recognized that—but if she’d not been so foolish, she’d never have needed to go to Tarkin. And then Thrawn wouldn’t now be in command of a Star Destroyer.

It had all worked out beautifully. Pryce allowed herself a small smile. 

Thrawn saw, and remarked on it. “ _Csei vun’can’cehn?_ ” She didn’t know the adjective. He continued, seeing her confusion. “ _Ttis’ah? K’ates?_ ”

Pleased, happy. He was asking if she was satisfied, she supposed. She was, of course, trying to formulate a response as their drinks were brought by the server.

“ _K’ates tisut neo ten’hz,_ ” she answered honestly. She was happy to speak his language. Their _shared_ language now. Pryce used the first person plural possessive with deliberation. Thrawn himself had offered it to her before, right in this very place. 

His language was now hers. As his career path was now hers. They had been inextricably bound by military orders and the unfathomable patronage of a Grand Moff.

She wasn’t sure how he’d react, but it had evidently been the right thing to say. Thrawn raised his glass towards her—slowly, meaningfully. Pryce leaned over and clinked it.

“ _Neo,_ ” he toasted. Ours.

“ _Nen,_ ” she dared. Us. Thrawn’s glass paused halfway to his lips.

Pryce drank, eyes fixed to his, lowering her drink and relishing the burn of alcohol in her throat. Thrawn took a sip only after she’d set down the glass, apparently having decided her case modification of the first person plural was acceptable. 

She watched him openly, liking the way his hands curled around the glass, the close of his lips around the rim. His eyes had that exotic ring of xanthous around the dark pupils, making them flame in the shadows. He met her stare, the knowledge she saw stark and potent, something she felt in her bones.

“Commander Pryce,” Thrawn said, voice so soft it was below a whisper. 

She liked how he said her name, her new rank. “ _Veo ch’epasahn?”_

What did she want?

She had just received everything she ever wanted. Position, recognition, a powerful patron who seemed dedicated to her success. A career, special status. A guarantee to be deployed with her superior officer no matter where he was sent. Countless future successes and victories awaiting Thrawn, and she would be there for all of them. The Chiss himself couldn’t banish her, not with Tarkin’s orders on file.

There was only one thing left.

“ _Dah._ ” Second person singular, nominal objective case.

He bent across the small table at her reply, face solemn, but eyes now lit with something deeper, demanding. So Pryce turned the question back at him, the tones of his homeworld rough and beautiful on her tongue. 

“ _Veo ch’epasahn?_ ”

Thrawn didn’t hesitate. “ _Rihn._ ”

The same. Happiness, pure and unfamiliar, made her hungry and strange. They remained poised like conspirators, bent in seditious intimacy over the table. Thrawn’s hand, resting lightly on his knee, reminded her of how his palm felt between her fingers, against her skin. How she’d wondered at the vocabulary for his anatomy.

She reached without thinking, stretching across the brief space between them, lifting his hand. As he had last night, Thrawn let her hold him, his breath audible in the darkness, their bodies bowed in mirrored incline.

“ _Veo—_ ” she put forth that all-purpose interrogative, her intent to ask the Cheunh word for ‘hand,’ the one he’d denied her yesterday. His fingers closed around her wrist, knowing, cutting off her question.

“ _K’en’hr,”_ he said softly.

“ _K’en’hr,”_ she repeated, meeting his gaze, seeing everything she wanted reflected there. She didn’t let go of his hand, turning her wrist and angling it towards him.

“ _Veo—_ ”

“ _In’sibevi._ ” His mouth tilted up, gently mocking her curiosity. They could be here all night if she was looking to name each part of him, his smile said. Thrawn’s expression was as indulgent as she remembered from that first lesson.

She smiled back, sliding one foot against his boot beneath the table, tapping the side of the polished instep with her toe.

“ _Teabi,_ ” he smiled broader, _“vim...but.”_

“ _But?”_ Pryce laughed, delighted. Finally a cognate. After over a month, she thought it was the first one she’d discovered. Boot. Thrawn tilted his head at her amusement, lips widening, teeth flashing. 

She’d made the correct decision. He needed her; he always had. He was now in a position to give her everything she wanted. And he wanted the same things she did. Wanted _her._ He’d admitted it. This was all a formality, then, wasn’t it? Pryce sighed, squeezing his fingers and bringing her other hand to Thrawn’s lips, their color lighter than the rest of him tonight, almost pink.

Her index and middle fingers grazed, traced his mouth. He blinked, slowly, as if just waking up.

_“Veo—”_

His lips moved against her skin, the heat within escaping and warming her as he answered.

_“Dashe.”_

It wasn’t the direct translation she’d expected, but she had no difficulty interpreting his meaning. His offer.

_“Tras,”_ Pryce whispered back, claiming what was hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the Cheunh words (and one Sy Bisti) in order of appearance!
> 
> K’ebatas=Loyalty  
> Tra roncan’i=I am staying  
> Bah dash=with you  
> Ukwethembeka=Loyalty (in Sy Bisti)  
> Mar=Yes  
> Hsr’ah csan’vun’t?=Shall I meet you?  
> Ch’abeiuh=Goodbye/see you later  
> In’a cssen’v=One drink  
> Csei vun’can’cehn?=This is satisfactory?  
> Ttis’ah?=Pleased?  
> K’ates?=Happy?  
> K’ates tisut neo ten’hz=Happy to speak our language  
> Neo=Ours  
> Nen=Us  
> Veo ch’epasahn?=What do you want?  
> Dah=You  
> Rihn=Same  
> Veo=general interrogative (why/how/what/etc)  
> K’en’hr=Fingers  
> In'sibevi=Wrist  
> Teabi=Foot  
> Vim=And  
> But=Boot  
> Dashe=Yours  
> Tras=Mine
> 
> Also, a little note on military culture if you're unfamiliar with the significance of who "pins" your rank on during a promotion ceremony. The person being promoted typically decides who gets the honor of affixing their new rank to their uniform. And it _is_ an honor. This can be anyone--from a commanding officer or colleague to a spouse, friend, or child. The fact that Tarkin defers to Thrawn to pin Pryce means Something. *wink wink nudge nudge*

**Author's Note:**

> Sy Bisti is, per Timothy Zahn, some Zulu with little changes. I've kept to that concept. My Cheunh is a little bit of Russian, a little bit of my own linguistic preferences, and a little bit of whatever the online Cheunh translator threw at me.  
> https://funtranslations.com/cheunh
> 
> Also a debt to anthean's fun fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648327 for thinking about this so intensely.
> 
> If you'd like a detailed breakdown of the language invented/used in this fic, please see the comments.
> 
> This was another Friday Fluff prompted by the Thryce Discord as well as an idea tossed out by ap_trash_compactor about swapping Pryce into Vanto's role. It started super fluffy and got a bit darker as I got sucked into their unhealthy reality. However, it's all gonna work out in the end, I promise. Thanks for reading this messed up fairy tale with a shitload of make-believe vocabulary.


End file.
